The Bear Pit (18 page)

He had time to recover from that. The waiter brought their main courses, the rack of lamb for her, grilled john dory for him. His, she had noted, was the higher priced; he was dining
haut prix
as well as
haute cuisine
tonight. She wondered if an expense account would be presented at Trades Congress tomorrow morning. Somehow he had found an expansion to his credit card without causing him to collapse.

At last he said, “I think we must get to know each other better.”

“You really think I could help your career?” She was not a good flirt, but she was trying.

“You're beautiful, you're smart and from what I've read, Chinese women are the strength behind their men.”

“That depends on the woman.” She thought of Madame Tzu, who didn't need men to show her strength. “You'll have to learn to temper your flattery. You're too—too direct.”

“That's how a politician should be. The voters suspect you if you soft-soap them with flattery. They like you to be direct, even if they dislike you. Will you marry me?”

She hoped he was joking. “No. Is that too direct?”

He nodded appreciatively, the charm back in his smile. “You'll be an adornment to The Lodge. We can make it multi-racial.”

“Wouldn't it be better if I were also part-Aboriginal?”

“One can't have everything,” he said, but one knew he would never settle for less.

As he looked at the bill, his face stiffening in apparent pain, he said, “Your place or mine?”

She
wanted to laugh; but said, “Mine.”

“Where do you live?” He had picked her up at the Feng offices in Chinatown.

“Drummoyne. On the water.”

“Nice.”

He had a Mercedes, one that she guessed was at least twelve years old. She judged him to be the sort who would always choose an imported luxury car, even one second—or third-hand, to anything local. That might have to change when he became a politician, but for the moment vanity was at the wheel.

He drove well, with flair. He really is well-rounded in everything needed to get ahead, she thought: vanity, flair, ambition. And, she was sure, buried under all that, ruthlessness.

Drummoyne is on the south bank of the Parramatta River. It is in the Harding electorate; Peter Kelzo lived two streets away, though she had never met him and had no desire to. The Mercedes drew up in the quiet dead-end street and Balmoral looked out at the large modern house between the street and the water.

“Very nice. You live here alone?”

“No,” she said and kissed him on the cheek. “My mother always waits up for me.”

VII

Next morning she told her senior partners: “He knows about the money, but he doesn't know what it's for.”

“Could he be useful?” asked Les Chung.

“Not yet. Maybe in the future. He wants to be Prime Minister.”

Aldwych shook his head. “He won't be any use to us there. You don't buy influence down in Canberra, unless you're looking for tax concessions. You shop for influence in Macquarie Street. That's what State governments are for.”

Les Chung smiled. Democracy had been defined.

“If he knows about the money, will he talk about it?” asked Madame Tzu.

“
If he does,” said Aldwych, “I'll get my man Blackie Ovens to talk to him. Blackie can come out of retirement for a day or two.”

“No,” said Jack Junior, second youngest and least bloodthirsty. “How is he getting on with you, Camilla?”

“He wants to marry me.”

“Really?” The four men and even Madame Tzu were surprised.

“Love at first sight?” asked General Wang-Te, who was shortsighted when it came to love. His wife had been a bride of convenience, an inconvenient one when he discovered she thought sex was a sin. American missionaries were more insidious than their CIA.

“No.” She gave them the smile she had given Balmoral when she had kissed him goodnight. “He thought I was his mirror.”

But Madame Tzu remembered the advice of the Emperor Tai-zong. If one used others as a mirror, one might learn of one's achievements and failures.

Jerry Balmoral might be brighter than they thought.

5

I

“THEY'VE TRACED
Janis Eden,” said Clements.

“Where'd they find her?”

“She's a blackjack dealer at the Harbour Casino. Changed her name to Joanna Everitt. They never miss, do they? Always the same initials.”

“They're the smart ones, just in case they've got something with their initials on it, something they want to keep. Have they picked her up?”

“No, they've left it to us. She was our pigeon originally, they said.”

“That was what Pilate said. Everybody washing their hands.”

“It's the system, mate. That was why God invented water.”

Malone and Clements drove over to the big casino complex just across the water from the western edge of the city. It was a huge futuristic concept, like the set for an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. A vast arc of steps, or steppes, led up to the main entrance, an ideal stage for a massacre. Clements drove round to come in a wide entry where escalators led up to the main gaming floor.

He pulled the unmarked car in behind a Bentley turbo that was being guided into a line of expensive cars cordoned off by a long red rope. A parking valet, like the grey bombers of the parking police out on the streets, appeared out of nowhere.

“Not there, sir. You can't park there—”

“Why not?” said Clements, who knew the purpose of the exclusive area.

“That's for regular clients, sir—”

“You mean the high rollers?”

“
We-ell, yeah—”

“We're high rollers,” said Malone, stepping out of the nonexclusive Holden Commodore and showing his badge. “We roll anyone who gets in our way, that right, Sergeant?” Then he grinned at the young valet. He stepped out of the way as a Ferrari rolled in behind him, its exhaust thrumming like a gambler on heat. “We shan't be long, son. We may be bringing someone out. The less fuss the better, isn't that what your bosses would want?”

He and Clements went into the casino and up to the main gaming floor. In the four years the casino had been operating Malone had never been in the place. He was not a gambler; when the kids had been at school they had had difficulty in persuading him to buy a raffle ticket at the school fête. His money never came out of his pocket looking for chances; if he was not guaranteed at least an equal return, forget it. He was the low roller of all rollers.

He stood for a long moment looking at the scene. The banks of poker machines stretched away in all directions, their fronts showing more expression than the faces of the humans pulling the handles. Beyond the poker machines were the gaming tables, where the players seemed capable of more expression, even the odd burst of excitement.

“You notice?” said Clements. “Three outa five players are Asians. They come here, do their money, keep coming back. All wanting to be rich tomorrow. The land of milk and money.”

They moved on. Malone, not a man of much aesthetic perception, found himself looking at the surroundings and the decor. Long ago, on the trip to London when he had first met Lisa, he had gone to an exclusive gambling club, tracking a suspect. It had been a discreetly opulent atmosphere, good taste in every drape and every stick of furniture; but that had been years ago, before taste had gone downhill in the world. This was Las Vegas Down Under; he found it hard to believe that so much bad taste could be under one roof. Perhaps it was psychological, designed to keep the gamblers on edge.

They came to the blackjack tables. Malone looked along the row of them, recognized Janis Eden at the far end. She had changed, he had to look hard and long at her. But it was she, all right: if nothing less, the old coolness was still recognizable, like a favourite dress.

“
You know the game?” Clements asked.

“I know the rules of two-up and that's about it. What are your chances of winning at blackjack?”

“I'd rather bet on the horses. You take your cards from the dealer and they've gotta total 21 or less. You win if your total is higher than the dealer's. There are over 1300 different ways two cards can total the numbers from 2 to 21. There are 560, maybe a few more, two-card combinations worth 16 or more. That's all you have to remember,” he said with a grin and moved towards the end table. “Let's go and talk to Janis.”

She looked up as they approached, gave no hint of recognition. “You wish to play, gentlemen?”

“Not here, Janis,” said Malone. “Could you have someone relieve you? We'd like to talk to you.”

She frowned, only slightly. She glanced around her; for a moment it seemed she might try to flee. Then she gestured to a supervisor, said something to him in a low voice, then jerked her head at Malone and Clements and led them away from the gaming tables.

“What's this all about? Are you going to make trouble for me here?”

“It's got nothing to do with all this.” Clements gestured around them. “How'd you get the job? You been doing a blackjack course while you were in Mulawa?”

“I worked in Las Vegas eleven years ago. They were looking for an experienced dealer. I got the job.”

“Why'd you change your name?”

“It's my real name. My birth certificate, my passport—Joanna Everitt. Janis Eden was the name I invented for that other game—in case I got caught, I guess. My mother was very strait-laced North Shore—” She paused a moment and Malone wondered if there was still a spark of decency in her. “The name I went to prison under.”

“So you're clean? Joanna Everitt is okay with the Gaming Squad and the casino people? They're tough with their checks on whom they employ.”

“I'm clean.”

She
was holding something back, but Malone didn't press her. Police divisions don't interfere with other divisions unless asked; one had enough troubles of one's own. If the Control Authority had cleared her he wasn't going to wise them up.

“I'm making a fresh start,” she said. “Isn't that what we're supposed to do when we come out of prison? I'm rehabilitated. Now what's all this about?”

The cool exterior was brittle now. She was a good-looking woman who had started with a barely attractive face and built on it. Her dark auburn hair was thick and lustrous, the sort of unbelievable hair one saw in TV commercials; Malone bet that she would get more men players to her table than women. Her figure was good, suggesting sex but not easily available. Men wouldn't pass her by without looking at her. Women would pass her by, sniffing.

“Righto, Joanna. Do you know a man named John June? Or John August?”

She shook her head, eyes blank. “What does he do? Come here to play?”

“He might. Or to talk to you. He shoots people. A hitman.”

She was not the type who would ever shriek with laughter; but she put her hand over her mouth now as if afraid that she might. She looked from one to the other. “You're joking!”

“I don't think we are.”

“Oh, for Crissakes—” She looked as if she might walk away from them. “Why would I know a—a
hitman
?”

“How do you feel about your ex-boyfriend?” asked Clements. “Young Jack Aldwych?”

“Candidly?” She might have been telling them what she thought of the latest fashions; the composure was thickening. “I hate him. His father, too. But what've they got to do with this—this hitman?”

There was a shout from one of the tables; someone had just won a jackpot or something. Heads turned, but nobody moved: everyone was chasing his own fortune.

“Don't you read the papers? Look at television?” said Clements. “The Aldwyches were on either side of Premier Vanderberg when he was shot. The shot could of been meant for either of them.”

“
So—” If she was acting, she was good at it. Maybe nine years in Mulawa had taught her never to show her true face. Prison is an education, one way or another. “So you think I might have arranged it? Do me a favour, gentlemen. Get lost. You're going to lose me my job here. The security guys are watching us.”

Malone glanced towards the two big men standing ten or fifteen metres away. They had
security
written all over them, like an invisible logo; they were in suits and wore badges, but the badges were superfluous. They moved towards Joanna and the two detectives.

“Something wrong, gentlemen?”

“We're police,” said Malone. “Miss Ed—Everitt had her home broken into and we think we've got the feller who did it. We'd like her to come with us, identify some of the stuff we took from the bloke.”

“You didn't tell us, Joanna.” They were both huge young men; side by side they could have blocked a freeway traffic lane. “Why not?”

“Excuse me,” said Clements. “This is police business. Are you suggesting you should of handled the case?”

The security man who had spoken backed down. “No, of course not. We just are concerned for those who work for the casino.”

“It's okay,” said Janis Eden; or Joanna Everitt. “I'll go and see if any of my stuff has been picked up. I'll go when I finish my shift. That all right?”

“Yes,” said Malone. “Just call me when you're coming. Good luck back at your table.”

“Do you play?” asked one of the young men.

“Only solitaire. I'm not very trusting.”

He and Clements left then, not hurrying, almost strolling past the tables and the poker machines. Every machine was fronted by a player, each of whom sat there like an animated doll, faces dead as plates. An elderly woman turned to look at them; her grey hair was in a clenched perm, the sort that Malone thought had gone out years ago; the plate of her face was cracked, her eyes dull. He
recognized
the type: she would have begun at bingo games years ago, seeking not fortune but just company. Now the machines had imprisoned her. He tried not to be judgemental, but the blind eye only works with sympathy. He had seen too much addiction, of all kinds, and sympathy had worn threadbare.