Temptation by Douglas Kennedy Page B

narrative structure, its punchier dialogue . . . though I knew that, as soon as I read the retyped version, I’d immediately start wanting to make more changes. And if Philip Fleck really decided to film it, he would, no doubt, demand a completely new draft, which would lead on to a second draft, a polish, a third draft, another polish, the arrival of a script doctor, his draft, his polish, then a third writer brought in to beef up the action, then a fourth writer to hone plot points, then Fleck might suddenly decide to shift the entire action from Chicago to Nicaragua, and turn the entire thing into a musical about the Sandinista Revolution, replete with singing guerrillas . . .
    ‘Mr Greta-fucking-Garbo returns,’ Bobby said as I reentered the front cabin. ‘Remind me never to travel with you again.’
    ‘Hey, work is work – and Fleck will have a new draft of the script to look at tomorrow. Anyway, from the sound of it, you were busy too. Was that an associate you were threatening?’
    ‘Just a guy who screwed up a little deal for me.’
    ‘Remind me to never get on the wrong side of you.’
    ‘Hey, I don’t fuck clients – and I’m using the “literal-and-figurative” definition here too.’ He flashed me one of his smiles. ‘Unless, of course, the client fucks me. But why should that happen, right?’
    I smiled back. ‘Why indeed?’ I said.
    The captain came on the tannoy, asking us to buckle up for landing. I peered out the window and saw a large swathe of blue defining the landscape below. Then we banked sharply as sea gave way to a shanty town – dozens of small grim cubed dwellings, looking like a sprawl of corrupted dice. After a moment, they vanished too – and we were descending fast through the palms, the pot-marked tarmacadam rising up to meet us, the sun incandes cent, unforgiving.
    We taxied to a stop far away from the main terminal building. As Cheryl opened the door and pressed the electronic button that lowered the stairs, we were hit by a rush of rank tropical heat. I noticed two men waiting for us: a heavily tanned blond guy dressed in a pilot’s uniform, and an Antiguan policeman. He had an ink stamp and pad in one hand. As soon as we disembarked, the pilot said, ‘Mr Barra, Mr Armitage . . . welcome to Antigua. I’m Spencer Bishop, and I’ll be piloting you to Saffron Island this afternoon. But first, we need you to clear Antiguan immigration. Would you show this gentleman your passports, please?’
    We handed them over to the immigration officer. He didn’t bother to check our photographs or even notice whether our respective travel documents were valid. He simply stamped an entry visa on the first blank page he found, then handed them back to us. The pilot thanked the officer, and proffered his hand. As the officer shook it,I noticed that he palmed a folded American bank note. Then the pilot touched me lightly on the shoulder and pointed to a small helicopter, parked one hundred yards from the plane.
    ‘Let’s get you guys on board,’ he said.
    Within minutes, we were strapped into our seats, talking to each other via headsets, as the rotary blades did their loud concussing thing, and the pilot pulled down the throttle, and the airport vanished, and the blue began again. I stared out of the window at the aquamarine horizon, dazzled by its purity of color, its sheer boundlessness. As we flew closer, this fragment became more visually defined – an island around half a mile in circumference, dappled by thick palms, with a sprawling low-level house smack in the middle. I glimpsed an extended dock, against which a few boats were moored. There was a long strip of sand near the dock. And then, suddenly below us, was a circle of tarmacadam, with a large X in its centre. It took a moment or two for the pilot to manoeuvre us above it. Then he landed us right on the X with a light, but noticeable, bump.
    Again, two functionaries were awaiting us – a man and a woman, both in