Cuban Rummy

Cuban Rummy

Bob Hyslop

‘The moment you play this game it is important for you to understand melding technique along with false discards and other types of deceptive techniques.

’ Ralph Michaels (about Canasta)

Rummy’ = ‘odd, queer, singular’ (OED)

‘The Jonas Forbes Saga’: Vol. 4

First published in Great Britain 2012

Cuthan Books (http://www.cuthanbooks.co.uk )

Copyright Bob Hyslop

The right of Bob Hyslop to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

ISBN 978-0-9573694-1-2

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For those who can ‘meet with Triumph and Disaster and treat those two imposters just the same’. (‘IF’ Rudyard Kipling)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1: THE SHUFFLE

CHAPTER 2: THE DEAL

CHAPTER 3: THE DRAW

CHAPTER 4: THE MELD

CHAPTER 5: LAYING OFF

CHAPTER 6: THE DISCARD

CHAPTER 7: GOING OUT

CHAPTER 8: SCORING

AFTERWORD

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

What a fucking waste! A blue sky, a brilliant sun, a crisp breeze and all I can see are those vicious twins. That was the thought of Sam Bowen as he tried to summon up the faith of his grandmother and failed. Not the first failure in his life but certainly to be the last.

If Sam had dragged his eyes away from the barrels of the shotgun three feet from his nose, he could have examined the vicious grin of the man holding the weapon. But that would have been too much viciousness for that day – month – year. It really didn’t matter. The gun may have seemed vicious but it was cold... dead. The man’s eyes held a wickedness as if Satan was inside and staring out. And yet there was a deadness there which had no place in the fires of hell. Who was this pistolero anyway? No! ‘Pistolero’ was too romantic word for scum like this creature. If Sam had stared into those eyes he’d have seen a ‘pandallero’, a hoodlum; fit only to stick under his shoe. But he didn’t dare to look into the eyes, not when those twin caverns of death loomed so close.

Why was he standing here, on a cliff edge with his back overlooking Manzanillo, looking at the gateway to Eternity through the barrels of a gun? Because he was ‘ingles’ or because they thought he was a ‘gringo’? He didn’t know and just now that appeared the biggest horror, to be murdered for the wrong reason! The ‘wrong reason’? Good God, could there ever be a right reason? And so he was back to his grandmother.

From somewhere he heard a voice dragging him back from daydream to reality and murder.

Why are you here?

A simple enough question but one he couldn’t answer, especially with a shotgun almost up his nostrils. So he said nothing.

My friend is growing impatient. It’s a sunny day and lots of girls wait to enjoy his company. The tone was gentle but deceptive because the speaker himself was growing tired of waiting for an answer he was sure would never come – and his ‘friend’ would willingly have spent the rest of the afternoon honing that unusual thrill of bringing somebody closer to death while denying him such simple release.

I don’t know what you want me to say.

Just the truth…Why are you here? The speaker glanced at his assistant, aroused at the prospect of death, almost licking his lips at adding another notch on his escopeta. He really was an animal but so amenable, the perfect ‘obrero’.

I can’t say -

A nod from the interrogator whose patience had snapped. A grin from the gunman whose moment had come. The shotgun closed the gap between its holes of death and the Englishman. Sam retreated and... That was that.

The day was still beautiful, the island so peaceful. But two men retired quietly from the cliff while a third lay far below, wrapped in the silence of death.

&&&

CHAPTER 1: THE SHUFFLE

Vanessa Clarke at last was starting to feel in charge. Perhaps it was only a very small office within a rather run-down building in a less ‘desirable’ area of London, but it was clearly ‘the end of the beginning’ as Churchill had said. Last week the office had been a chaos of paper and furniture and energetic men rushing in with arms laden down with more for the shambles. Three weeks ago the office had looked large simply because it was completely empty, the walls grubby, the windows opaque with grime and she’d felt alone – almost abandoned. Now she was still alone but not lonely.

It had all been so rushed. Six months before she’d finally had enough of Sir Jeremy Smith and the Foreign Office and resigned. Of course, when pressed for a reason she’d cited perceived restrictions in the working patterns within HMG, not really knowing what that implied, rather than admitting Sir Jeremy’s attempts to abandon Jonas Forbes in Egypt had disgusted her. Did anybody there have any idea of her real reason? Probably several of the workers who kept the ponderous bureaucracy still functional and perhaps a few of those supposedly in charge. But that didn’t include Sir Jeremy: he just got in the way!

And then Jonas Forbes had proposed – not marriage, for she’d never be able to handle that idea! – she should become his assistant as business was expanding. Was he being stupid or just optimistic? Most of his work now came through official channels and, whether he knew or cared, several of the ‘corridors of power were lined with individuals, like Sir Jeremy, who either hated or would come to hate Jonas Forbes. Reason? He was active, effective and ALIVE! But they were… not. And what did she herself feel about the man? She didn’t know. But a job is a job and what had been presented certainly offered more of a bumpy ride than anything in HMG; so she’d accepted, somewhat to her own surprise when her mouth opened and said, Yes.

Had she regretted it since? Not really. Jonas had busied himself with a couple of ‘bread-and-butter cases’ for his profession, ones finishing up in the Divorce Court. She’d largely been left to her own devices which equalled cleaning out the two offices making up the premises of ‘Jonas Forbes – Enquiry Agent’, unpacking boxes, moving furniture (with help!), welcoming new supplies (without help) and getting to know everybody within shouting distance (no help needed). In the end, the offices looked efficient, if slightly run-down, with its staff ready for anything, if somewhat nervous. Her normal pose was behind a Remington typewriter, transferring data from files, newspapers and odd bits of paper on to cards which could be stored in either of the two well-worn, olive-green filing cabinets and, it was feared, never more see the light of day. But Jonas had read the tales of Sherlock Holmes with great attention and come away with the idea that anybody practising as an ‘Enquiry Agent’ should have to hand reference to anything possibly useful to that profession. How that usefulness was assessed was left to Vanessa who, never having dipped into the works of Conan-Doyle, had some unusual criteria in that regard. Even so, Vanessa would have declined the (modest) salary paid by Jonas for doing nothing and classification of such material kept her fully occupied.

Vanessa Clarke was of average height, with a figure to attract wolf-whistles and a face to attract admiring glances – all topped with a mass of auburn hair to make sure she’d not be forgotten. At that particular moment her hazel eyes were somewhat deprived of their normal intensity but a familiar smile was playing on her lips. She was thinking of Simon Holmes who’d taken her to see ‘War and Peace’. She’d enjoyed the film and had decided to model herself on Audrey Hepburn, elegantly descending a luxurious staircase, with little hope of success; and get around to reading the book, with greater hope of success because Vanessa, once immersed in a book, pursued it to the very end – which in this case would be a very long way away. However, her thoughts were mainly on Simon, attentive, generous and hesitant when it came to kissing her goodnight. Was that how she liked her men? She didn’t know.

A discreet rap on the opaque glass shielding her realm from the general public broke into her thoughts. The door opened and in shuffled a familiar figure.

Why, Tim, how lovely to see you! The welcome was genuine.

Timothy Ripley was a member of MI6, but not the dashing hero so beloved by thriller writers; he was undersized, over-weight, balding, short-sighted and with too-prominent teeth. Really he was one of those backroom-boys on whom so much depends. He’d been most useful to Vanessa last year in extracting Jonas from danger in Sudan, much to Sir Jeremy’s disgust. He’d shown himself to be loyal, with a deep integrity ready to beard in their dens the most frightful dragons in Whitehall.

He grinned sheepishly, very apt when encased in a duffel-coat, and slid into a chair.

Glad to see you’re settling in, Vanessa. I hope you find the new boss easier to work with.

Much better – chiefly because he’s rarely here.

A voice from somewhere deep inside Tim’s head muttered, ‘Silly fool! but he only offered a sharp nod and the grin disappeared. He’s not around now, I suppose?"

No – and I’m not expecting him to show his face today.

Oh. Silence for a minute while each wondered how to get around that impasse.

Perhaps I could get you a coffee? Vanessa half-rose to her feet, looking forward to a break from picking up rumblings in London over the Treaty of Rome - signed, a few weeks ago, in March. If anything was guaranteed to send a well-meaning secretary to sleep over her typewriter it was any discussion of the newly formed ‘Six’. She’d been surprised Jonas had asked her to produce a summary of what had been going on in the European Economic Community. She suspected he thought it a job that had to be done, but certainly not by him. Sir Jeremy had possessed the same attitude towards underlings.

That’d be nice, Vanessa, was the reply as Tim could see her itching to escape whatever job was numbing her mind; anyway he found her interesting to talk to and uncomfortably attractive. She busied herself with the ‘instant’ and within five minutes they were ‘comfortably sitting’ (if that is possible on second-hand utility chairs) and chatting about nothing until Tim looked at his watch.

I’ve got to run, Vanessa. Sir Dick can get a bit sarkie if anyone’s out too long – ‘Wouldn’t the KGB take you?’ is one of his ‘nicer’ comments... Get Jonas to phone me because we’ve got a job ...Overseas (NOT desert!) and dangerous.

Should be right up his street, was the reply but there was tension in the eyes. How many times can anyone stand by and watch somebody poke their head into a tiger’s mouth?

Then he was gone and Drab Monotony again took the office under his control. Vanessa wrote a quick note for Jonas and then returned to the delights of Messrs Spaak and Adenauer.

&&&

This could be interesting. Vanessa winced as Jonas waltzed into her office with her note of yesterday in his hand. Any idea what Tim wants?

No ... He just stayed for a short chat… I’d say he thinks the job’s right up your street… but then he himself won’t be going up whatever that street is, will he?

Somebody’s got to do the nastier stuff and -

You’re still not fully over Egypt. Jonas muscular frame hadn’t overcome that ‘lean and hungry look’ all too apparent during the last Christmas season. Vanessa had almost asked him around for Christmas lunch but ‘chickened out’ because of her elementary culinary skills.

Having no great desire to spend time on a sandy beach, I’d say I am.

Make sure he comes clean before you agree to anything.

He’s not like ‘the Nameless One’ who -

Sir Jeremy’s chief failing was looking after his own behind.

Rather awkward if you’re giving somebody else a scrubbing brush. They both laughed as a rather indelicate image of Vanessa’s late boss drifted into their minds – and be sure Jonas’s version was the more obscene. Anyway, I’ll give Tim a ring and see what’s up.

Be careful, Jonas.

Where have I heard that before? he laughed as he disappeared back into his inner sanctum and closed the door.

&&&

It’s really a ‘stick your nose in and see what the smells like’ sort of operation. For Jonas that probably indicated a ‘stick your head above the parapet and see if it gets shot off’ business. He’d always felt great sympathy for the ducks repeatedly gunned down at fair side-shows with no chance of fighting back. Now that WOULD be a game worth playing.

Tim had explained the project as a mystery. Cuba these days was almost in a state of civil war. HMG wanted to know who was most likely to win. Back the wrong horse and you could be shut out from trade etc. for years. So far they’d sent three men to spy out the land. Two had disappeared and one been found dead at the foot of cliffs. They wanted Jonas to be the fourth man, with the extra charge of finding out what had happened to his predecessors.

But I don’t speak Spanish.

You don’t speak Arabic but that didn’t stop you getting away with it last year.

Jonas glared at the MI6 man. Alright for him to apply the metaphorical slap on the back but the whole affair had been a close-run thing, and a nightmare. He’d insisted his success had really been a question of luck – plus crucial help at certain points. He’d wondered what had happened to Nathifa and his other Ghagar companions but had never summoned up the energy to ask. Why hadn’t he phoned James Hamilton and got him to find out? Well, for starters James was in Sudan and the Ghagar in Egypt!

I’m not up to asking a lot of questions -

You’ve got ‘Enquiry Agent’ on the door. Got you there!

I must ask Vanessa to get the sign changed. It causes confusion… I really dodge trouble … wear down the opposition… Keep my head out of a noose. Did he honestly think that anybody who’d spent more than a single hour working with him would believe that?

You’re nosey, Jonas, and you go about finding out in ways which upset people. Not quite. Jonas recalled the B & K episode early last year had been a case of his stumbling over clues and then going on the warpath... A straight fight in a way.

I might be interested if the pay’s right.

We can fix that.

And I must have a free hand – with backup ready to help out.

Not much chance of the 7th cavalry out there but then there’s not much chance of bureaucrats sticking their oar in.

Like Smith?

He’ll try to muscle in, just for old time’s sake, but I assure you Sir Dick can defend his corner.

And Sir Ivone? A key question. Sir Ivone Kirkpatrick, the Permanent Under-Secretary to the Foreign Office exercised some form of control over Sir Dick White, the Head of MI6. He also had the great advantage of terrifying Sir Jeremy Smith so it was essential to get him on side. Jonas leaned his back against the upright of his standard-issue Civil Service chair as he enjoyed the spectacle of Tim wrestling with his conscience. Old hands like Sir Jeremy Smith had murdered conscience years ago with a weapon marked ‘Public Interest’, Tim was still battling with those two awkward ogres called ‘Honesty’ and ‘Self-Respect’ as he struggled to produce a suitable answer. It was a close-run engagement but ‘Public Interest’ mastered the field of battle.

I’ll ask Sir Dick to have a delicate word with Sir Ivone who, as you may not know, was somewhat appreciative of your efforts in Egypt.

No comment. Crucial in the success (and survival!) of Jonas in Sudan six months ago had been intervention by C Squadron and Jonas had never discovered how far up the chain of command somebody should be thanked for that.

I can assure you... There’ll be no problem. No! Tim, you’re turning into Sir Jeremy.

Didn’t you tell me that before I went off to Egypt?

Did I? ...I don’t remember. As I recall trouble started because of bad luck. Tim, you HAVE turned into Sir Jeremy.

No. It was because of a KGB mole nestling inside Whitehall who sent off details to Egypt and -

That’s history, Jonas. Tim slammed the discussion shut. Will you do it? Tim, I rest my case. ‘Honesty’ has slunk back into his shrinking shell.

Jonas was tempted to remark the mole had never been caught but realised that was obvious – and not his problem! On the other hand, he did need a contract; taking on an assistant had pushed his resources to the edge. Somehow he heard his voice saying, Ok. I’ll take it on. When do I start?

They were both taken aback by the last question. Jonas couldn’t understand what demon had slipped that question out of his mouth: Tim didn’t know the answer but guessed that it was a matter of urgency. There wasn’t an endless stream of agents available for…

Be ready to go by the start of next week – and thanks.

Thanks for putting my head on the block. How polite!

&&&

He’d been given contact names, assured his beloved Browning P35 would be waiting for him at the Embassy in Havana, and given an open-ended reservation at the Hotel Nacional de Cuba in Havana. Jonas returned to his flat at 21 Hilton Mansions, Norbury to pack a case and head for Heathrow; he was booked on a flight to New York where he’d change planes for Havana.

The journey to Cuba via New York proved non-eventful but extremely tiring due to the changes required. Firstly, BOAC flew Jonas to New York on a DC-7; then the human package was passed on to Fort Lauderdale and from there, courtesy of Mackay Airlines, to José Martí International Airport in Havana.

Nada que declarer?

The last word gave Jonas the clue so he smiled at the little fat official and almost whispered, Nada. For a moment the eyes narrowed and the moustache appeared to droop in sympathy. How could this rich tourist have nothing to declare? Was that the message on the hostile face – or was it just the official had endured a bad morning. There was a curt nod and the flourish of a hand to throw open all the delights (and dangers) possessed by Havana.

Jonas murmured, Gracias, and moved on in the hunt for transport. Much to his surprise he’d been booked into the most luxurious hotel in town, La Hotel Nacional de Havana. Why? The cover for one of the disappeared agents had been that of a salesman for Rolls-Royce. MI6 had gone one better this time; Jonas was to be John Ford, a representative for BSA armaments’ side, specialising in the ADEN cannon, a useful bit of kit, fitted on to aircraft for nearly twenty years. Of course, there’d been serious modifications and Jonas had been given a crash course considered sufficient by any but real experts in air warfare – but how many of those were in Batista’s government?

The cab-driver tried to be conversational on the way to the Vedado, where the hotel reared its massive form in defiance to the heavens, but Jonas’s lack of Spanish transformed the dialogue into a monologue in under ten seconds and lack of