THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (28 page)

A large pair of pyramid lamps stood against a burgundy wall. Each lamp glowed a similar hue to the rose leather couch between them. The material covering the lamps appeared on close inspection to be some sort of translucent textile whose lightsome appearance belied its Hessian-like feel. Made from the same material, and a replica of the Washington Monument, a glowing obelisk lamp stood against the opposite wall between two seats of the same design and colour as the couch. A framed print of George Washington hung above the Monument-like lamp. His founding father features portrayed in the same curvy line as his portrait on the dollar bill.

A low table with a ruby marble top stood in front of the couch. Two golden sphinxes, each the size of a domestic cat, were placed one at each end of the table. A copper relief-sculpture of Akhenaton, the monotheistic sun worshiper of ancient Egypt, hung on the wall behind the couch.

Goldman pushed a butt-piled ashtray back in from the table's edge and dropped onto the rose couch. He leaned forward and grabbed an expensive-looking camera from off the table. A new model Hasselblad, by the look of it. He remembered Michelle saying Cruise was a fashion photographer. He fitted the camera back into its custom leather cover. Well, one who hardly took care of his equipment, he thought.

An entertainment unit stood against the wall on the chemist's left. It housed a big-screen television, a video recorder and a cassette player. A glowing M made from red neon tubing and mounted on a stylish wood base stood near the couch. The upper-case letter cast a reddish patina on Goldman's face as he drummed his kneecaps, his adrenal glands still unwinding from the night's plentiful action.

'Want an Irish coffee?' Michelle asked, heading for the kitchen.

'Sure, why not?'

'Thanks again for driving me home.'

'Think nothing of it.' He rubbed his aching knuckles and got up from the sofa. He heard the rumbling industry of an electric kettle, the clink and clatter of glass and ceramic as Michelle prepared her offer. Several paintings lined the walls. He stopped at one, recognized it as a Brett Whiteley original, remembering the style and signature from a Whitely exhibition he'd attended at a north shore gallery in Sydney.

He studied the bright expanse of ocean, the crafted white strokes suggesting a lighthouse overlooking the waters. The shape of the steep promontory and its accompanying bay looked familiar. Then he knew why. 'Byron Bay,' he said under his breath. He remembered passing through the easterly point as a teenager. Remembered a scorching sun in an azure sky. White sand beaches and dappled pockets of coastal rain forest. Holden panel vans piled high with surfboards. Locals, tourists and sun-browned surfers knowing they were in a special place.

Goldman wanted to return to his homeland, to be a hemisphere away from the political volcano which had erupted about his feet. He turned away from the bluish painting, from the nostalgic sentiment which threatened to crush him should he think about his home country. It was a luxury he couldn't afford. Most likely he'd be arrested if he boarded a flight to Australia. He had to keep his eyes and ears open, had to think long and hard before undertaking any wave-making moves.

The electric kettle shrilled loudly before turning itself off. No sooner had he returned to the couch than Michelle brought in two enamel mugs and placed them on the low-set table. She sat beside him and picked at the couch's spongy armrest.

'This is some place.'

'Hmm, I guess it is. Father gave it to me for an indefinite period about a week ago.'

Goldman made an appreciative whistle. 'Thanks dad. And he even had your initial sculptured in red neon – '

'Are you kidding?' she said caustically. 'That's M for Michael, man. Motherfucking Michael!'

He'd obviously hit a raw nerve. 'Still it was good of him to give you the place.'

'Yeah, I guess,' she sighed. 'Rent free as this ex-love nest is.'

'Really?'

'Uh-huh,' she said, as if his incredulity were for the latter part of the sentence. 'Father's a Congressman. Selfish. Ambitious.' She curled her lip. 'God knows how many
hookers
he's had in this place.' She paled as if having overstepped a self-imposed mark, and quickly lit a cigarette. 'Sorry, I shouldn't have brought that up.' She took a cautious sip of her steaming drink. 'It's just that I ... I
hate
him, I guess. I really do.'

'Ah, come on, that's a bit harsh.'

'Well ... you don't know my dad.' She shook her head and issued a stifled sob. He could see she was struggling to say something, struggling to maintain a modicum of composure, not wanting to break down in front of this man she barely knew. He reached across and stroked her silky hair, felt he wasn't taking liberties by it. 'It's all right,' he said, though the hackneyed phrase sounded woefully inadequate in his ears.

Even so, Michelle sniffled and pressed against him. His arm slipped about her and they sank back into the couch. Her warm body melded against his, and he was thrilled from the unexpected contact. However the couple's newly won intimacy was soon eclipsed by Michelle's cathartic need to say more about her father. 

'Of course father's portrayed as the perfect family man,' she said sulkily. 'Though he and mother have had separate bedrooms in their Spring Valley mansion for years. Mother's the pleasantly sloshed socialite at every Washington Club fund raiser. In fact she's always sloshed. I've tried to get her to go to AA for years, but she's hopeless.' She remained against Goldman and dragged on her menthol cigarette before resting it on the ashtray. Tendrils of bluish smoke spiralled toward the ceiling and a stultifying silence descended .

'Mmm, I've had a similar experience with my own mother,' Goldman said with open sympathy. 'But she's pretty much off the sauce now – and thank god for that.' The familiar pain centred around his mother's drinking washed over him; but the overall agony of this unprecedented day brushed it aside. He had too much on his plate to concern himself with the past, particularly his mother's shortcomings.

'Yeah, alcoholic parents suck all right.' Michelle stared at the obelisk lamp opposite.

'Well, my father wasn't a drunk.'

'Well, Congressman Eastman isn't, either. But that doesn't stop him from being a total loser, sex-addict.' She shifted uneasily on the couch. 'Which brings me back to this lousy joint. I originally told father to stick it, but when Terence heard about it he demanded I accept the offer. I put up a fight ... but eventually gave in.' She reached forward and sucked on her cigarette, scrunching her face from the hot rush of vapours. 'Anyway, the only upside is I can get away from Terence sometimes ... like now, I guess.'

'Hmm.' He sensed her discomfort, that her life wasn't in order, that it had been largely shaped by others. And the pale bruise about her eye only enforced the perception.

'So' – she let out a breathy sigh – 'Father got word that a criminal group he's investigating is going to monitor this place.' She waved her hand and cigarette ash fell to the shag carpet floor. 'Apparently they want to stop him launching a congressional inquiry into their organization. Exposing his womanizing here would certainly discredit him politically. What with his recent pledge to ... what was it? Oh yes, his recent pledge to “protect family values from unchecked liberalism”.' Goldman inhaled her perfume, was buoyed by the closeness of her body, her words dancing about him like a cluster of delicate moths. She narrowed her eyes. 'So as no great surprise Congressman Eastman is only protecting his own sweet ass by having me here.'

Michelle glanced at a crumpled Calvin Klein shirt on a seat opposite. 'It's proved a good deal for Terence too. He's got his coke stashed here. A big batch on credit. Keeping it here makes him less paranoid dealing out of his Wisconsin Avenue apartment.

'Men.' She rested her cigarette on the ashtray and looked into Goldman's eyes. After a searching moment, she whispered, 'But you're different, aren't you, Scott?' Before he could reply, she goaded him. 'I think you are,
mate,
' she said in girlish mimicry of his Australian accent. 'Yeah
mate,
I really think you are.' She poked him in the ribs and ruffled his hair. Goldman chuckled and was drawn into her tension-breaking mood, hardly believing how well she parodied his speech and mannerisms. She continued with her kittenish romp, giggling and poking and clipping the end of his nose with her finger. But she soon tired and nuzzled against him. 'Hmm, I think you are different.' Sounding confident she hadn't misjudged him.

'Oh, I don't know.' He put on his best smile, but the strain of recent hours threatened to crush him as he looked into her finely sculpted face.

'Hmm, I know you're different ... cause you sure
ain't from around here
,' she jested in a twangy accent. However her jocularity faded and she let out a loud sigh, as if prey to a disturbance that had overcome any feelings of companionship. 'Listen, there's something I must tell you, Scott. I – '

'No,' he cut in, suddenly conscious of the lies and half-truths he'd told since meeting her. 'There's a few things I must tell you.'

'Shh.' She pressed a finger to his lips. 'No, you listen. There's time later for whatever you have to tell me ... as long as I straighten this out with you.' She turned toward him, her face tauntingly close. Her outgoing breath caressed his cheek and her chestnut brown eyes drew him to her like overpowering magnets.

'Okay,' he replied, being all he could do not to lean forward and taste her lips. How he longed for the ecstasy of her embrace, for them to forsake this world of hardship and secrets.

'Scott,' she said, 'what I want to say is.' She placed her hand on his and garnered thought. 'It would be right to say you and I are attracted to each other. I barely know you, yet I feel remarkably close to you, as if I've known you for ... well, for a long time anyway. 'She clasped his hand and released it, as if wanting to say something important. 'Listen, it's only fair I warn you that Terence will probably come here tomorrow morning.'

'I ...' he started.

'Shh,' she said, taking his hand again. 'He won't come tonight, I'm quite certain. He doesn't like driving at night with his merchandise on him. But he'll turn up in the morning to replenish for his usually brisk weekend trade.' She paused solemnly and her doe-like eyes radiated a vulnerable intelligence. 'When he comes here, I must warn you he'll raise quite a bit of hell should
you
be here with me. He's prone to violent outbursts lately.' She twisted about, as if forcing him note the light bruise about her eye.

'So if you want to stay with me tonight, I must warn you there's an element of risk involved. I fully understand if you want to leave and arrange a more suitable time for us to meet.' She straightened his hair and collar and gazed absently at his parted lips. 'I do like you but' – she sighed wearily – 'I don't think I can drive anywhere else tonight. I'm just too exhausted. The last few days have been trying.'

Goldman was relieved this was all that was worrying her. He liked her. Immensely. And couldn't find it in him to leave at this juncture. Besides, where would he go? Being with Michelle was an agreeable buffer from the chaos of what had to be the worse day of his life. He wanted to stay with her in this warm, safe apartment. He wasn't too concerned about Terence; though a bud of apprehension had taken root – he was yet to meet the man.

'Michelle, I want to stay here with you, regardless of any possible disturbance. I simply can't leave ... unless you want me to?' He looked down at her, suddenly vulnerable by way of the question. He sensed the cold, wet streets outside. The cruising police cars.

She met his uncertain gaze and a flash of panic showed in her eyes from being put on the spot. Before long encouraging words spilled from her mouth. 'No, I'd like you to stay. I'm sure everything will be ... okay. 'She cast him an affable smile then picked at the sofa's armrest, as if contemplating the repercussions of her decision.

He bent forward and pecked her cheek. 'Don't worry, everything will work out fine ... Hmm, I should try this nice Irish coffee you made.' She flashed another smile as the fugitive chemist blew on the hot surface of his drink.

                            TWENTY-THREE

Haslow yanked off his Paragini leather shoes and collapsed onto the bed. Exhaustion reigned supreme. How had his life taken this merciless veer? The mainstays of his former world were no longer dependable securities. He was adrift on treacherous waters that required new skills and logics. In any case with a new identity all but under his belt, it seemed the gods had favoured his first move.

He pressed his head into the pillow and closed his eyes. His aching midsection relished the support of the inner-spring mattress, his weary mind finding solace in the locked room. After farewelling Peter and Candy out front of Purple Haze, he'd hailed a cab and asked the chattering Sikh driver to find him budget-priced accommodation. He'd left his BMW in a remote corner of an all-night car park. On Monday morning he hoped to find a downtown auto-dealer not greatly disposed to paperwork and questions once a suitable cash price was struck.

His stressed mind wasn't able to shut down. He picked up a remote from the night table and surfed the room's bolted-down television, finally stopping on a late-night newscast.

“... Congress has given a $100 million dollars in economic aid to Nicaragua's Sandinistas. However, Sandinista leader Daniel Ortega recently travelled to Cuba to meet the man he openly calls 'Comandante and Comrade Fidel Castro'...”

“... another wave of drug-related violence has hit Little Havana, Miami, formerly the domain of Cuban-exile group Alpha 66. Early this evening unidentified gunmen raked a car with automatic gunfire as it waited at a traffic light, killing the two men and one woman inside the vehicle. Police have identified the deceased as known drug traffickers ...”

Propped on the bed, Haslow became conscious of his soiled socks. The musky odour was redolent of times past. The Delaware orphanage. Shuttered windows. Wooden bunks. Locker rooms and communal showers. Pervasive glandular scent. Adolescent. Willful. Hint of competition at all cost. He thought again of his brother, of his fractured childhood. Cheerless crucifixes in shadowy hallways. The inculcation of purgatory and salvation ...