As he readied himself for the stroke, the girl asked, "Do you want screaming?" She was American.
"Yes, screaming. Lot of screaming. If you don't scream, I'll whip harder and harder."
Lippincott whipped and the girl screamed with each cutting crack. Back came the whip, then forward, crack, and the polished snakelike cord glistened with blood, back and forward, back and forward, faster until the screams and the whip and the cracking became a single sound of anguish and then it was over. James Forsythe Lippincott was spent and with the sudden quenching of his strange and sudden thirst, his powers of reasoning assumed command and he was suddenly afraid.
He realized now the girl had screamed almost as a duty despite the great pain. She was probably drugged. Her back looked like raw meat.
What if someone had taken pictures of him? He could deny them. It would be his word against some bush nigger's. What if the Minister of Public Safety found out he used his name improperly? Well, three, maybe four hundred dollars would take care of that.
What if the girl died? Twelve thousand dollars. He gave more than that each year to the Brotherhood Union for Human Dignity.
So why be afraid?
"Are you through, Lippy?" the redheaded girl asked dully, her voice heavy with drugs. "If you are, you're supposed to take the chains off."
"How do you know my name? That's only used in my social circle."
"Lippy, this is Busati. Are you through?"
"Uh, yes," he said, going to the wall to get a better look at her face in the dimly lit room. She was about twenty five, the fine, lean nose had been broken days before and was swollen and blue now. There was a gash in the lower lip that had crusted around the edges.
"Who are you?"
"Don't ask. Just let me die, Lippy. We're all going to be dead."
"I know you, don't I? You're… you're," and he saw the features, now mangled, that had once graced Chesapeake Bay society, one of the Forsythe girls, a second cousin.
"What are you doing here, Cynthia?" he said, and then, in horror, remembered and said, "We just buried you in Baltimore."
"Save yourself, Lippy," she groaned.
In his panic, that was just what Lippincott intended to do. He envisioned Cynthia Forsythe somehow getting back to Baltimore and disclosing his terrible secret. Lippincott grabbed the end of the whip and wrapped it around the girl's neck.
"You're a fool, Lippy, you always were," she said and James Forsythe Lippincott tightened the whip and kept pulling the ends until the red swollen face of the girl disclosed a tongue and the eyes bulged and he kept pulling.
The sergeant downstairs understood why James Forsythe Lippincott did not wish to write out a personal check, and yes, he would trust him to return to his hotel and make arrangements with the National Bank of Busati to get cash. "We do not worry," the sergeant said. "Where would you go?"
Lippincott nodded, although he was not sure what the sergeant meant. He understood only that he would be allowed to pay for what happened upstairs, and that was all he wanted to hear.
When Lippincott returned to his hotel, Walla was still missing. He called for him several times, then vowed that when he saw Walla again, the busboy would get a beating to carry on his back for the rest of his life.
The vice-president of the bank offered to supply guards to Lippincott because walking around Busati with $12,000 was not the wisest of courses. "This is not New York City," the banker explained, apologetically and inaccurately.
Lippincott refused. He was sorry three blocks later. One of the many military patrols stopped him and as he reached into his pocket to show his identification and a ten-dollar bill, he must have disclosed the bulk of his cash, for the officer reached into his pocket and took out the envelope of one hundred and twenty hundred-dollar bills.
"That belongs to the house with the iron gate," said Lippincott hoping the power the house seemed to have would extend to the officer. Apparently it didn't, because the officer simply double-checked Lippincott's identification, asked him again if he were indeed James Forsythe Lippincott, then shoved him into the Land Rover and personally drove the vehicle away.
Out of the capital they drove, and along the great Busati River they drove. Darkness fell over the Busati and still they drove on, alone, the rest of the patrol having been ordered to stay back in the city. They drove so far that when they stopped Lippincott swore the stars seemed close, as close and as clear as they must have been when man first descended from the trees.
The officer told Lippincott to get out.
"Look, I can give you twice that amount of money. You don't have to kill me," said Lippincott
"Get out," said the officer.
"I'm a personal friend of the Minister of Public Safety," said Lippincott.
"You'll find him over there behind that wide tree," said the officer. "Go."
So Lippincott, finding the Africa night chilly and his heart even chillier, went to the wide tree that rose like a little prickly mountain from the Busati plain.
"Hello?" he said but no one answered. His elbow brushed up against something on the tree. He looked around. It was a boot. A leg was in the boot and on top of the leg was a body. The dangling hands were black. The body did not move and it smelled of the last release of the bowels. The body was in an officer's uniform. Lippincott stepped back to escape the smell and to try for a better look at the face. Suddenly a flashlight illuminated the body's features. It was the Minister of Public Safety. A large spike protruded from his head. He had been nailed to the tree.
"Hello, Lippy," said an American voice.
"What?" gasped Lippincott.
"Hello, Lippy. Squat down on your haunches. No, not your butt on the ground. On your haunches, like a slave waiting for his master. On the haunches. That's right. Now, Lippy, before you die, if you're very nice, you may ask me a question."
The flashlight had gone off and now the voice came out of the African dark, and try as he might, Lippincott could not see the speaker.
"Look," he said, "I don't know who you are, but I can make you a rich man. Congratulations on successfully scaring the crap out of me, Now, how much?"
"I've got what I want, Lippy."
"Who are you?"
"Is that your one question?"
"No, my one question is what do you want?"
"All right, Lippy, I'll answer that. I want to revenge my people. I want to be accepted in my father's house."
"I'll buy your father's house. How much?"
"Ah, Lippy, Lippy, Lippy. You poor fool."
"Look. I want to live," said Lippincott, straining to keep his backside just off his raised heels. "I'm humbling myself. Now what can I give you for my life?"
"Nothing. And I don't care about your humbling yourself. I'm not some Harlem shine who calls himself Abdulla Bulbul Amir. Humbling doesn't do anybody any good."
"You're white? I can't see."
"I'm black, Lippy. African. Does that surprise you?"
"No. Some of the most brilliant men in the world are black."
"If you had any chance at all, you just blew it with that lie," the voice said. "I know better. I know every one of you Lippincotts and Forsythes. There isn't one of you who isn't a racist."
"What do you want?" asked Lippincott. "What do you want?" The man was obviously keeping him alive for something. There was silence. Far off, a hyena howled. There would be no lions near here, not with vehicles and men having been around the area.
"I can get you recognition from America," said Lippincott. "My family can do that."