The Lioness(48)

“It sounds like I should have heard of him.”

“Nah. If you’re not interested in collecting an elephant, why would you know his name? He’s a dying breed: one of the last remaining great white hunters.”

The last three words caused Terrance to snap his head up. His mind had begun to drift: he had been looking down at the bar and their booze, but now he was staring at Merrick. Merrick was gazing at the rows of bottles with their exquisite labels behind the bartender, a phantasmagoric collage of yellows and reds and impeccable graphics. He considered letting the words slide by, but Peter was a straight shooter and Terrance once more was on the balance beam he knew well: outrage on one side and acceptance on the other. He’d built a career walking it. “Great white hunters?” he asked. “What in the world does that mean, Peter?”

The agent turned to him and shrugged. “It means nothing. No need to take offense.”

“I’m not offended, but it means something. Are there no great Black hunters? Or are there white hunters who aren’t great?”

Peter swallowed the last of his Johnnie Walker. “I’m guessing you didn’t see Drums of Africa last year.”

“Missed it.”

“You missed nothing. Atrocious movie. God-awful. But Torin Thatcher plays one.”

“A great white hunter.”

Peter nodded. “It’s just, I don’t know, the term that’s used for a certain class of elite hunter. The colonials who would lead the more exclusive hunting safaris. They used to be called that.”

That. Terrance noted that he didn’t repeat the expression. “And they were all white?”

“Yes. This was Africa.”

Peter saw no irony in that last sentence. But, then, why would he? The fact was, the colonials (Peter’s word) had had their boots on the necks of the native Blacks for centuries. They still did in vast swaths of the continent. And in some countries where the Africans had fought for and won their freedom, they were now reenacting the civil wars that had plagued Europe and North America the last three hundred years.

“I’m sorry, Terrance,” Peter was saying. “I won’t use that expression again.”

“Thank you. But you have nothing to apologize for. I was just taken aback by the term.”

“I think he’s an all-right sort. Charlie, that is. More good than bad. At least that’s the impression I’ve gotten from the memoirs and articles I’ve read about him. From the letters we exchanged when I booked him.”

“You did your homework.”

“I did. But, as I said, I’d already heard of Patton.” He motioned for the bartender to refill his glass. “Look, I’m not going to defend the man and what he’s called. But I have a sense that…”

His voice trailed off, and Terrance waited for the agent to continue. “I actually feel a little bad for him,” Peter went on after a moment. “I doubt his career is ending the way he would have liked.”

This surprised Terrance. “How so?” he asked.

“I’m guessing here, but I think he’s feeling a little diminished. Hunting isn’t what it used to be. Fewer people do it, fewer people spend the money. The new governments have figured out there’s a lot more dough from Americans and Europeans who want to photograph lions than kill them. Look at how little of Kenya or Tanganyika—where we’re going—is now zoned for hunting. It’s all about cameras, not guns. Wildlife experts, not hunters. And so Patton changed his business model and now guides the likes of us, instead of the likes of Hemingway. And if you’re the sort of man that Patton probably is, that’s a comedown. It’s…unmanly. That’s what I meant by a dying breed. I guess it would be like an actor of your stature suddenly having to pay the rent doing schlock horror movies with tiny budgets.”

“Oh, I did my share of those,” Terrance admitted, smiling, but he had been younger, and he sure as hell hoped he never again did another film where the flying saucers were those Wham-O Frisbees.

“And then there are the poachers out there. Killing elephants and rhinos. That must further deflate a fellow like Patton. They’re doing it illegally and without proper, I don’t know, respect for the animals.”

“So, how do you think he’ll treat us?”

“Patton? Oh, I suppose just fine. We’re paying guests. Well, Katie’s his paying guest. But you see my point. He’s been reading the writing on the wall for years.”

“And his staff will all be Black? Even now?”

“I think so. Maybe an Indian or two, but I doubt it.”

“I don’t imagine he’s had a lot of Black clients,” Terrance mused.

“Probably not,” Peter agreed. “But you’re American, and you’re with a party paying him big dollars. He won’t mistake you for a porter.”

The words hung there again, and Terrance restrained his desire to snap at the agent for what the other man clearly supposed was a harmless joke—tell him there was nothing funny about a remark like that. But he didn’t because Merrick hadn’t meant anything by it. He may even have thought he was being reassuring. Besides, Terrance was going to be traveling with him for the next week and a half. And Peter Merrick was a powerful man in La-La Land. He pulled strings that Terrance understood he would never see: he had to be careful. For all he knew, someday he might need or want Merrick to represent him. Actors changed representation all the time. So, he kept his irritation with the porter remark to himself. He hadn’t climbed this high on the Hollywood ladder by being combative over the things that, in the end, didn’t matter. He picked his fights carefully.