The Diceman

Of course, such a crime would be impossible, so I retreated to my earlier ideal-that I should murder without fuss,

emotion or violence arid with dignity, grace and aesthetic bliss. It was the very least I owed the victim.

But how! The Die only knows. I certainly couldn't see how. I would have to have faith. I would have to get myself

with Osterflood and see what turned up. I'd never read of an Agatha Christie murderer proceeding in quite this way,

but it was all I could do on twenty-four hours' notice.

`Frank, baby,' I said the next evening as he emerged from his taxi. `Long time, no see. It's your old buddy Lou Smith;

you must remember me. Good to see you again.'

I pumped his hand as the taxi pulled away and, still hoping to prevent him from uttering my. name within earshot of

the doorman, I threw my arm around his shoulder and whispered that we were being trailed and began marching him

away.

`But Dr-'

`Had to see you. They're trying to get you,' I whispered as we moved up the block.

`But who's trying `Tell you all about it at di

He stopped about thirty feet from his apartment.

`Look, Dr. Rhinehart, I . . . I've got an important . . . appointment this evening. I'm sorry, but-'

I had hailed another taxi and it careered over to our curb lusting after our East Side money.

`Di

`What?'

`Get in, quick.'

Inside the taxi I got my first good look at Frank Osterflood; he was a bit heavier about the jowls than he had been

before and seemed more nervous and tense, but it might have been his concern about dying. His hair was nicely trimmed and brushed, his expensive suit fit flawlessly, and he gave off the pleasant odor of some heroic after-shave lotion. He looked like a highly successful, well-paid, socially placed thug.

'- To murder me?' he said, staring into my face is search of a jocular smile. I had glanced at my watch; it was six

thirty-seven.

`I'm afraid so,' I said. `I learned from some of my dicepeople that they're pla

I stared sincerely into his face. `Maybe tonight even.'

`I don't understand,' he said, looking away. `And where are we going now?'

`Restaurant in Queens. Very good hors d'oeuvres.'

`But why? Who? What have I done?'

I shook my head slowly from side to side, while Osterflood stared nervously out at the passing traffic and seemed to

flinch every time a car drew up alongside us.

`Ah, Frank, you don't have to hide things from me. You know you've done some things that . . . well, might upset some

people. Someone, someone has found it's you. They plan to kill you. I'm here to help.'

He glanced back at me nervously.

`I don't need any help. I've got to go someplace at - at eight-thirty. Don't need help.'

Tight-jawed, he stared straight ahead at the somewhat un-artistic photograph of Antonio Rosco Fellini, driver of the

cab.

`Ah, but you do, Frank. Your little appointment at eight-thirty may be your rendezvous with death. You'd better let me come along.' `I don't understand,' he said. `Since dice therapy with you and Dr. Boyd I haven't, I haven't . . . done anything I haven't

paid for.'

`Ahhhh,' I said vaguely, searching for my next line.

`Except my wife.'

`Where's this place again?' shouted back Antonio Rosco Fellini. I told him.

`And my wife has left me and is suing me and if I die she won't get a cent.'

`But those early days in Harlem, Frank. They may know.'

He hesitated and stared over at me wide-eyed in fear.

`But I'm leaving my money partly to the NAACP,' he said.

`Maybe they don't know that,' I said.

`Probably no one knows,' he said sadly. `I just recently decided.'

'Ah, and when did you decide?'

'Just now, a minute ago.'

We drove on in silence for a while, Osterflood twice looking mind us to see if we were being followed. He reported

that we were.

`What's this appointment about tonight, Frank?'

'None of your business,' he answered quickly.

`Frank, I'm trying to help you. Someone may be trying to murder you tonight.'

He looked back at me uncertainly.

`I … I've got a date,' he said.

`Ahhhh,' I said. `But it's a woman that I . . . that . . . she likes money.'

`Where are you to meet her?'

'In … er … Harlem.'

His eyes flickered off hopefully at a bus stopped beside us, as if it might contain a plainclothesman or CIA man or FBI

man. There were undoubtedly a few of each, but they were out of his reach.

`Does she live alone?' I asked. It was six forty-eight.

`Uh . . . Well, yes.'

`What is she like?'

`She's disgusting!' he spit out emphatically. `Flesh, flesh, flesh - a woman,' he added.

'Ahh,' I said, disappointed. `Do you think there's any chance at all that she might be involved in a plot?'

`I've known her three months. She thinks I'm a professional wrestler. No. No. She's horrible, but she's not - it's not her.'

`Look,' I said impulsively. `Tonight the place for you to be is away from your apartment and out of public places.

We'll have di

`Are you sure…?'

`if anyone is going to try to kill you tonight, you can depend on me.'

Chapter Seventy-nine

When Jake Ecstein was walking through a Dice Center one day he overheard a conversation between two people.

`Show me the best role you have,' said the first person.

`All my roles are the best,' replied the second. `You can't find in me any piece of behavior which isn't the best.'

`That's conceited,' said the first.

`That's diceliving,' replied the second.

At these words Jake Ecstein became enlightened.

from The Book of the Die

Chapter Eighty

It occurred to me on my drive to Harlem with Frank Osterflood after our uneventful di

We arrived at the apartment house of Osterflood's `date' at a little after eight thirty-four that evening. We seemed to be somewhere near Lenox Avenue on 143rd Street or 145th Street - I never did find out which. My victim paid the cabby, Who looked resentful at being stuck in the middle of no-man's land when he might be at the Hilton or Park Avenue. No one came close to us when we walked the thirty feet or so from the sidewalk to the door of the elegant and crumbling apartment building, although I sensed dozens of dark faces glaring at us in the deep dusk.

We clumped up the three flights of stairs together like a man and his shadow, I fingering my gun and Osterflood telling me to be careful of my footing. The sound of galloping horses and shouts came out of a first-floor apartment, high-pitched hysterical female laughter from the second floor, but from the third, silence. As Osterflood knocked, I reminded him firmly that my name was Lou Smith. I was a fellow professional wrestler. The incongruity of two professional wrestlers showing up to court a lady, one of them dressed with Brooks Brothers immaculateness and the other like a down-and-out hood escaped me at the time.

The woman who came to the door was a middle-aged fat-lady with stringy hair, a double chin and jolly smile. She

barely seemed a Negress.

`I'm Lou Smith, professional wrestler,' I said quickly, offering my hand.