THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (27 page)

Haslow remembered the glossy travel brochure in his letter box that afternoon. He mentioned his tentative plan of flying to Hawaii, then going to Bangkok to see an old university friend.

'Well, to Thailand then.' Peter Haslowski raised his glass in a toast. 'To its tireless army of Patpong pole dancers.' He drew on his British cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke as if a panting jinn in Beelzebub's legion. The brothers clinked their glasses together.

'To Thailand,' Haslow said, his voice sounding brittle in his ears.

They rounded St. Vernon's square and motored down Ninth Street in Washington DC. Goldman was conscious of the speed limit and the thin guise of his car’s newly acquired license plates. Fortunately for him Michelle had only seen the passenger side of the car when climbing in. The Saab's scraped panels only confirmed Goldman's earlier claim of dodging a scrambling Red Setter (luckily Michelle hadn't seen the bullet holes on his side of the car). Of course Goldman planned to ditch the incriminating vehicle at the earliest convenience.

He and Michelle had talked like old friends and shared moments of unguarded mirth during the drive from Carmen's apartment. Their growing attraction was laced with the bonus of compatibility, or so it seemed at this early stage of their knowing each other.

'I don't know,' Goldman said, pulling up at a red light, 'Carmen seems too strong-headed to get herself into serious trouble with drugs. She's got too much going for her.'

'Hmm, I hope you're right, but high-paid models can make the worst addicts.' Michelle reached into her jacket and grabbed cigarettes. She inched down her window, not letting in too much of the night's chill air but still enough to filter the vaporous byproduct of her habit. 'I've never seen her
quite
like this before. I think she's pretty messed up inside over Paulo Jr., her Rio-based fiance. He's been playing her for a while and she's finally come to know it.'

Goldman glanced at Michelle as she drew on her cigarette. He knew his immediate situation, in contrast to his overall, was rose-hued indeed. Michelle was special. He didn't need the way other men looked at her to know it. With each passing hour he grew more enamored of her cover girl looks, grew more relaxed in her company, grew more certain of a kindred-soul connection. But was everything as it seemed? Of course he wasn't sure where he actually stood with her. Had she really broken up with Terence? Or did she sometimes use other men to make Terence jealous? Was it a tried and proven ploy during her long, tumultuous relationship with the photographer? Goldman didn't know, but knew just the same the affairs of men and women were rarely spelt out in black and white, and the friction of uncertainty was part and parcel of such affairs.

But how honest was he being with her? Of course she had no inkling of the violence he'd escaped from. How could she know battered men, burning cars and spent bullet casings littered his desperate path to her?

He stopped at another traffic light. The FBI building stood across the intersection. A foreboding edifice of collective force. He recognized the building but didn't look at it for the duration of the light.

'We're nearly there,' Michelle said. 'It's just over the Potomac.' He cast a sidelong glance at her as she chewed her thumbnail. He sensed her nervousness, smelt a pleasurable trace of her perfume, an earthy hint of musk rose. Wind-tossed branches in front of a street lamp cast shadows across her porcelain-smooth face. He took in her blond hair, tight jeans and scrunched leather jacket. She had on the same clothes as yesterday. It seemed another time. A time when Goldman planned to make the most of each weekend, a time when hired guns weren't out to kill him.

He pulled away from the traffic light and before long stopped at another. On his right stood the brightly lit entrance of a nightclub. People swarmed out front.

'Purple Haze,' Michelle said. 'It's a new club.' The orange tip of her cigarette flared in the subdued light of the car. 'It always looks busy.'

A cloud of smoky air spilled from the nightclub's door as men and women pushed their way inside. Stocky bouncers held back another group of clubbers who desperately wanted in.

'Well, I'll leave them to it,' Goldman said with a dry chuckle. He pulled away from the light and followed Michelle's on-the-spot directions. They passed the sweeping green of The Mall and drove across the George Mason Memorial Bridge. Farther on he saw the sign for Washington National Airport.
I'm flying out soon
, he thought. He imagined Michelle flying out with him and an agreeable feeling prickled his scalp.

'Just here,' Michelle said, with the pedestrian tone one applies to the familiar. 'Take the Crystal City turnoff.'

Peter Haslowski lit a cigarette and looked down at the dance floor. The nightclub grew rowdier by the minute. Dancers shouted and jumped as a popular new song blasted through the big bass sound system. Leggy girls in skimpy dresses dashed drunkenly to the dance floor. Bathed in swirling lights, the girls squealed and slapped each other from unbridled excitement.

Haslowski grinned, his even white teeth showcasing cosmetic dentistry.

'What's so funny?' Haslow asked.

'Oh, I was thinking how things have turned out. How roles have been reversed. Your legal assets, your hard-earned savings could well be frozen by this DIA general; whereas my black market dollars are securely invested in this country's property and financial markets.'

Haslow gulped down the last of his drink, hardly caring for his brother's self-satisfied mien.

'You went out into the world with a fistful of honesty, a university degree under your arm, keen to put you're shadowy ancestry at the orphanage behind you. And you did well for yourself, you stayed off the streets and out of trouble ... until now.'

'Don't rub it in,' Haslow said from behind the rim of his glass.

'Hmm, it must be hard for you. Soul-destroying to say the least.' Haslowski gripped his bourbon and flicked ash into the butt-riddled ashtray. He shook his head. 'Yes siree, you never know what's in store when you wake up each morning. Ain't that god's truth.'

Haslow nodded hesitantly. He had no choice but to listen to his brother, uncomfortable as it would be for him. From glib philosophizing to ego-bouncing proclamations, Peter would hold court tonight. The older brother looked over his shoulder. A muscled Hispanic youth with showy tattoos had sidled up to Candy. After eyeballing the pair for a moment, Peter twisted back to the table. He paused meditatively and rolled the burning tip of his cigarette along the edge of the ashtray, his face creased with a crafty smile. 'You know, Rod, to put it bluntly, I'm a millionaire.' His eyes glinted with the confidence of a rich man, and his underlying smugness only detracted from Haslow's diminishing reserve of self-assurance.

'You wouldn't believe the size of my property and stock portfolio.'

'You're right, I probably wouldn't.' Haslow drummed his fingers on the tabletop, not wanting to know how well his brother had done for himself. Nevertheless a splinter of curiosity had worked its way under his skin. He blew through his mouth with mild exasperation. 'Look, without saluting your criminal prowess, how could you have laundered that
much money?'
Haslow knew his brother had successfully distributed narcotics, and god knew what else, through the international crime syndicate Peter had joined as a youth. Seated at the table, he was only too conscious of Peter's dark side, of felonious dealings undetected by official radar. It followed that Peter had accrued a lion's share of wealth. And it now seemed he'd known where to deposit his ill-gotten gains.

Peter Haslowski smiled with the sureness of a well-positioned insider. 'It depends on where you bank.' He let loose a Machiavellian laugh like a man who's confidently covered all angles and from what he's put in place fears no censure. 'Oh, I know a doozie of a bank that's been good to me over the years ... though their cut is lucrative. BCCI. The Bank of Credit and Commerce International. The brainchild of a Pakistani named Abedi. A multinational bank run by crooks for crooks.'

'So it would seem.' Haslow smirked with open detraction.

Peter's levelling look from across the table wasn't lost on Haslow:
Be careful little brother, because I'm holding all the cards here ...

Haslow didn't need reminding. It wasn't in his interest to downplay his brother. Still, ingrained patterns weren't easily broken by a dramatic turn of events, by a diabolical night which had pounced on him like a predator from the shadows.

'Well, Roderick, the CIA maintains accounts with BCCI, as do other intelligence agencies. Mostly slush fund accounts for clandestine operations. So it would more rightly be termed a bank for crooks and spooks.'

Haslow remained silent and nursed his empty glass, dubious of his brother's claims. Again he was in no position to dispute his brother, nor did he care to.

'BCCI,' Haslowski continued, 'has legitimate branches in over fifty countries and handles the financial needs of people like, oh, Manuel Noriega, Ferdinand Marcos, Saddam Hussein ...'

'Hussein? I've heard that name.' Haslow furrowed his brow. 'That's right, I read in
Newsweek
 he's started a war with Iran.'

'Hmm, apparently he's got a taste for big toys.' Haslowski gulped down his bourbon and marshalled thought. 'So, returning to your query of how my money holds up to the light.' A reverential tone crept into his voice. 'By way of its complex international structure, BCCI can transfer money of dubious origins through its many subsidiaries, particularly BCCI Overseas in the Caymen Islands, and also through other banks, until the money becomes clean in the course of its global wash. In my case, after opening a BCCI corporate account, and having my laundered dollars deposited into it, I was free to invest in legal American enterprises and pay taxes like the next man.

'I'm as good as retired, Roderick ... from illegal adventures at least. I'm now involved with a real-estate investment group in Florida.'

'Good for you,' Haslow said. 'So you're now scouting Washington for some astute buys?' His question dripped with cynicism.

'No, not exactly.' Peter narrowed his eyes from being caught out, but nevertheless carried on with the enthusiasm of a well-placed team player. 'As I said, I'm as good as retired. However, there's a matter I've chosen to take care of for my former associates. A parting token of good faith.' He stubbed his cigarette and admired a passing brunette in high heels and a tight, sequined dress. His eyes fixed on her swaying buttocks. 'Some old coot from the House of Representatives is making a lot of people nervous by sticking his nose where it doesn't belong.'

Haslow recoiled.

'No, no.' Haslowski chuckled darkly. 'We're not going to do away with him. Nothing that drastic.'

At least not yet
, Haslow thought from his side of the table.

'No, just compromise his political standing to such an extent – '

'Peter-pet, I wanna go.' Candy materialized at the table, pulling at the back of her figure-hugging dress, her full breasts hardly escaping Haslow's attention. 'The bartender said they're about to close and to get people out they play this really 
loud
tape-loop of
Purple Haze
by Jimi Hendrix.' Her milky brow creased with concern.

Haslowski scanned the crowded floor below. 'Yeah, okay, let's go then.' He stood up, grabbed his cigarettes, and draped an expensive jacket over his arm. Ready to roll. Just like that. Haslow looked up at his brother, hardly believing he was before him, hardly believing they'd spoken at length. It was a special night, but providence had brought them together for all the wrong reasons.

'Listen, bring me a strip of passport photos and I'll send them by courier to my contact in Miami. He'll send back a passport with your picture in it in less than a week.'

'But what about the numbers?' Haslow asked, rising exhaustedly from the table.

'Don't worry, Hans is an old pro.' Haslowski fingered the collar of his tailored wool jacket. 'He always has counterfeit American passports on hand, as well as an update on issuance numbers. He'll print in a number code just ahead of present ones.'

'But won't that show up?'

Peter Haslowski sighed. 'Look, when you leave this country your identity is only
manually
checked against federal arrest warrants and tax evasion lists. With your new identity and your newly numbered passport you'll have no trouble leaving the country, and probably no trouble reentering ... as long as the legitimate owner of your passport's number hasn't gone and broken the law. Until US airports are linked by national computer, which I'm told will happen soon, this system will work.' Haslowski slid out from the booth and stretched his legs. 'So what name do you fancy for your new identity?'

Haslow paused, his mind near-numb from the driving pace of recent events. He would never forget this night when his world had collapsed about him like the walls of a detonated building. This night when his brother of all people had come to his aid. He watched Candy bend over and adjust her shoe strap. Her low-cut dress highlighting her fetching figure. He was in dire need of sexual release, but dare he roam the city tonight in search of it? An inner voice warned against such indulgence. Late night streets had a way of breaking those out of their element. Best to stay low and out of sight, especially from patrolling police cars.

The Silverwood chemist had recently read
Wilderness of Mirrors
by David Martin. The author's name came to mind and Haslow offered it.

'Well, David Martin it is.' Peter Haslowski slapped his brother on the shoulder. 'So, let's quit this crummy joint.'

Candy nodded none too enthusiastically and gathered her things.

'Come in.' Michelle turned on lights and headed for the bathroom. 'But please take off your runners.' Goldman did, bent forward and sniff-tested his socks. Luckily he wasn't on the nose. He walked into the living room and stretched his arms above his head, all the while studying the colour co-ordinated décor.