Cheaters

by JR Carroll

  ‘Victor is a kind of front man, I would say,’ she continued. ‘He also has all sorts of contacts in the business world’ – here she inserted quotation marks around the word ‘business’ with her fingers – ‘that they use somehow. I’m not sure exactly. He’s a bit of a mystery man, or that’s the image he likes to … to …’ She fluttered her hand, looking for the right word.

  ‘To promote.’

  ‘Right. I think he’s the company director, which Sigmund can’t be because he’s a bankrupt.’

  There was a short silence, then, apparently apropos of nothing in particular, Danny said, ‘Have you ever seen or heard of a guy with a bald head and his arm in a sling?’

  Mischa laughed. ‘No. Why? Where’d you get that from?’

  ‘Oh, nowhere. Doesn’t matter. I was just thinking of Victor and his business contacts.’

  ‘Some of them are a bit … unsavoury. Part of his thing is to, you know, associate with shady underworld types. He gets off on it, I suppose. Gives him a big thrill.’

  ‘So … what business are they in?’

  ‘Oh, desktop publishing, art galleries, property investments, buying and selling; anything that makes a fast buck or that they can use to write off taxes. As I said, he deals only in cold, hard cash. No plastic cards, no cheques, no receipts, no paper trail.’

  ‘Gambling.’

  ‘Right. And that’s where you come in. One thing about Victor – he’s got a good eye for talent.’

  Danny shook his head and played with his chopsticks. Christ, I’m probably laundering stolen funds.

  ‘So you’re a bit of whizkid with numbers, huh.’

  Danny laughed, but didn’t raise his eyes or stop fooling with the chopsticks. He seemed preoccupied, so much so that he hardly noticed the arrival of their main course, which came on a trolley, accompanied by the chef himself. He sharpened his knife, then set about the business of meticulously carving the duck into thin slivers, pausing occasionally to re-sharpen his blade. While they watched him at work Mischa glanced at Danny, who seemed distracted, and said,

  ‘What’s on your mind, Danny Goldfingers?’

  Now he sat up straight and smiled at her. ‘I’m sorry, Mischa. Oh, this and that, you know: Sigmund Barry. Victor Wineglass. You.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah, you. I’m impressed by you.’

  ‘Impressed by me. Is that so.’

  ‘Sure is.’

  The chef finished carving, leaving no flesh at all on the carcass. Then he made a small parcel containing duck, cucumber and various condiments, all folded into a wafery pancake, to show them how it was done, after which he departed with his trolley, smiling and bowing.

  Sigmund was right: the duck was juicy, tender, flavoursome, free of fat – the best food Danny had ever tasted. Food fit for an emperor.

  While they ate, Danny asked what magazines she appeared in, and Mischa – a bit coyly, Danny thought – said they were all fringe-type publications put out by Sigmund himself, with names like Full Metal Jacket and Rave On. He also produced erotica – the kind that came wrapped in plastic – and nonviolent porn videos, which were sold in sex shops or by mail order out of a company based in Canberra. His latest project was a sex package on CD-ROM. You just clicked on the desired activity, and this … virtual woman did it for you on the screen. This, however, was still in the experimental stages. Mischa hastened to add that she wasn’t in any of the videos or anything, that there were other models – male and female – in Sigmund’s employ, and that posing nude was as far as she was prepared to go. Yes, Sigmund had asked her to go the extra mile, but she had politely declined and he’d let it go at that. There were plenty of more willing bodies around.

  Discussion then turned to Danny, his university course and his gambling pursuits, and he asked if she’d ever been to the casino. Mischa had not – it wasn’t really her scene.

  ‘Would you like to go?’ he said. ‘Just for a bit of fun.’

  ‘What – tonight?’

  ‘Yeah. When we’ve finished here.’

  She ate some food, thinking about it, and said, ‘Only if you can show me how to break the bank, Danny Goldfingers. I could use a win.’

  When they were outside, Danny glanced at the Virago and said, ‘So, do you want to get a cab, or what?’

  But she was already astride and starting it up. ‘No way. Someone’d pinch my wheels, and that would really spoil my day after such a fantastic dinner. Come on, hop on the back.’

  ‘But … I haven’t got a helmet.’

  Putting hers on she said, ‘So? Who’s gonna see you, and who cares anyway? Let’s go, if we’re going.’ She revved the engine a few times and did not look behind her, waiting and knowing he would get on.

  When he was aboard, she started to move off, saying, ‘Put your arms around my waist.’

  Those were sweet words to Danny’s ears. She burbled down Little Bourke Street, weaving a passage around squads of pedestrians and vehicles, both moving and stationary, constantly switching from left to right and slipping through the narrowest of spaces with the utmost confidence. Danny kept his jaw hard against her shoulder, smelling the leather jacket and feeling the fluid movements in her body as she swayed this way and that. The scarf he’d given her fluttered and touched his face teasingly as he hugged her firmly, but not too firmly, inside the jacket, slightly above where the skivvy was tucked into her studded belt. As they motored along he thought, If I just inched my hands a little further up I could be holding her lovely breasts …

  But even though he had a feeling she wouldn’t object, he refrained. As much as he was seduced – aroused, even – by the nearness of Mischa Fleming, his mind was pulling him back to the subject of Paul Sigmund Barry and his crashed finance group, PB Investments, Adelaide, 1988 …

  Inside the casino once again – his turf now – Danny assumed charge and showed her around, explaining how various games were played, while she nodded thoughtfully and asked the occasional pertinent question. In the end, intimidated by the tables, she settled on playing pokies, so they moved among the densely populated rows of machines in search of the right one – one that was not too complicated for a beginner and which said, Play me, baby. A ten-cent Firebird machine seemed to beckon, so she fed her cupful of dollar coins in and perched herself on a stool while Danny explained her options, suggesting she play five lines. Soon she was happily pressing the play button, jiggling her backside on the stool and hooking her feet under the rungs, her eyes bright with anticipation. Minor collects came almost immediately.

  Mischa’s fortunes ebbed and flowed in the ensuing half hour while Danny stood to one side and slightly behind her. From this position he could observe unseen the changing expressions on her face, which was illuminated by the pulsing screen. Every time the jingle played, signifying a win, she became animated, and then came a decent jackpot – five hundred coins, or fifty dollars. Mischa gave a small squeal and, moving closer, Danny placed a hand lightly on the small of her back, saying, ‘Well done, girl.’ She turned towards him and smiled triumphantly while the credits mounted up.

  ‘This is thirsty work, Danny,’ she said – his hand still on her back – ‘why don’t you get me a drink? Something refreshing with lots of ice in it. Not alcohol.’

  ‘Coming right up,’ Danny said, and went away glowing. The world was a warm and rosy place. He stood waiting at the bar, looking straight ahead and thinking about Mischa while the man alongside him was served. When the man started to move off with his drink he said, as if they were old friends, ‘Hello, Danny. Doing some moonlighting, I see,’ and continued on his way. Danny stared at his departing back. It was the man in the reefer jacket and gold-rimmed glasses, with the bald head and his arm in a sling. The same man he had seen earlier in the day conferring with Victor Wineglass.

  When he returned to Mischa she was so engrossed in playing the machine she didn’t notice him until he put the drink, an orange squash with lots of ice in a large glass, in the space next t
o the machine.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I just won another ten dollars. That’s a hundred coins, right?’

  ‘Sure is. How much are you up?’

  She said, ‘I dunno. How do you figure it out?’

  He pointed to the credit meter, which showed 714. Mischa had started with a hundred.

  ‘You’re winning about sixty.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right.’

  ‘Keep your eye on the metre. If it gets down to five hundred, press collect.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because otherwise you’ll end up giving it all back.’

  ‘But I’m having fun.’

  Danny laughed and put his hand on her back again, very discreetly, as if it were the most natural gesture in the world. ‘Haven’t you ever played pokies before, Mischa?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I haven’t. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Barely. You want to watch out. You’ll get hooked.’

  ‘I think I am already. I’m a bit like that, you know. Once I get into a thing I can’t stop. Last year I had absolute cravings for seafood, any kind of fish at all. Had to have a fix every day, just like a junkie. Now it makes me sick to even look at the stuff. Before that it was cheesecake. I used to pig out like you wouldn’t believe. Now I hate it too. Oh – what’s this?’

  She had hit another jackpot: five dancing couples in what looked like a scene from Strictly Ballroom. The meter racked up a further 500 credits, taking Mischa’s overall tally to 1200-odd. She had so far managed to turn ten dollars into a hundred and twenty.

  ‘This is so incredibly easy,’ she said. Straightaway came another payout, and three free spins. Mischa didn’t know what was happening. The thing was playing by itself, and continuing to pay small amounts. She sat staring at the screen with her arms folded across her chest, lips slightly ajar with the tip of her tongue just visible between them.

  Danny felt a sudden impulse to kiss her on the cheek, but instead massaged her back in a circular motion. She said, ‘That’s nice’, then turned towards him with a smile and said, ‘So what’s on your mind, Danny Goldfingers. What’s going on in your head.’

  Still massaging, Danny said, ‘I was just thinking how lucky you are, first time on the machines, then I thought, they probably do this deliberately to sucker you in. The machines are probably programmed to identify novice players and let them win. That way you’ve got them for life. It’s just the kind of thing these people would do, Mischa.’

  Mischa thought that was a scream, the part about the machine identifying novice players, but he had said it so deadpan she couldn’t be sure he was pulling her leg. ‘Danny,’ she said, ‘don’t be such a wanker.’

  By the time they left, nearly an hour later, Mischa was still a hundred dollars in the black. Danny had played the machine next door to hers for a while and gone down twenty bucks without minding in the slightest. Then on the way out they passed a group consisting of the bald man in the round shades and reefer jacket, another snappily dressed man with a sleek, sanguine face and small eyes that darted everywhere at once, two other men who might have been plainclothes cops or off-duty weightlifter types, both in dark suits that were stretched way too tight across the shoulders, and a skinny young woman whose trembling hands were shredding a drink coaster.

  The men had her bailed up at a drinker’s stand. She had light brown shoulder-length hair done in tight, corkscrew curls framing a hollow-cheeked face and pale, watery eyes that were set deep in their black-ringed sockets. As he went by, Danny gave her a quick, curious look, and she returned his glance with an imploring expression of helplessness and panic. She seemed to mouth two words: Help me. One sidelong glimpse and Danny thought: junkie, desperado. He heard her say to the main man, the sleek one, ‘I would if I had it, but I haven’t,’ in a fluttering, barely controlled voice that was bordering on hysteria.

  The bald man in the reefer jacket said, ‘You know what’ll happen if you don’t.’ One of the suits added something terse that Danny didn’t catch, but there was no mistaking the thickness of the air over that circle, or the fear in the woman’s eyes. She didn’t want to be there, that was plain. Help me, she had said – but how could he? Danny suppressed a desire to look around over his shoulder on the way out, but could feel those gold-rimmed shades on his back. Criminals, he thought. Standover stuff. Maybe he had already involved himself too much, just by noticing her plight and overhearing parts of the conversation.

  When they were out of the building, crossing the taxi rank and headed for the car park, he was for some reason not altogether surprised when a voice from behind shouted his name. He stopped and turned. There he was, removing the sunglasses and raising his arm in the manner of a Nazi salute. ‘Take it easy, man,’ he said, the words resonating in the crisp night air. ‘Sleep tight now, both of you.’ Then he turned and walked quickly back towards the casino.

  ‘Who was that?’ Mischa said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Danny said. All the same a chill had run up and down his flesh. ‘No-one. Some spook. Forget him.’ Then he took her by the arm and continued on into the massive car park. Mischa appeared to lose interest in the man immediately, but he remained very much on Danny’s mind. When they finally reached the Virago, which she had parked next to Danny’s VW Golf Cabriolet so her Gearsack and helmet could be secured in it, she was relieved to find it still there: ‘I’m so paranoid about someone pinching it – if they do, I’ll be paying it off for the next two years, and I don’t have comprehensive insurance.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should, if it worries you that much.’

  ‘Sure. But whenever I have a spare six or seven hundred there’s always something else I want to spend it on, like clothes or perfume or whatever. Funny about that.’

  ‘How long have you had it?’

  ‘About six weeks …’

  He unlocked the Golf’s boot to retrieve her things, taking his time about it to keep her with him, then said, ‘Where do you live, Mischa?’

  ‘In Prahran. I share a house with a couple of students. Thanks.’

  ‘How does that work out? The shared thing.’

  ‘Oh, not bad. They live their lives and I live mine. We manage to keep out of each other’s hair. It’s a big enough house for three people to get along in, just. But I think they’re moving out soon, which is a bit of a problem. What about you?’

  ‘I live at home. In Airport West, with my mother.’ He felt the need to qualify this last detail by adding: ‘My dad’s dead.’

  Zipping up her jacket she stared at him through the dark and said in a faintly surprised tone, ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘No, I mean … that’s why I still live there. To keep her company. I’m her only child, so … we’re sort of stuck with each other.’

  ‘That makes two of us. I mean, I’m an only child too.’

  Danny smiled at her, wondering what else they might have in common.

  After a few silent beats, Mischa said, ‘Well … thanks for the dinner, Danny. And for bringing me here.’

  ‘That’s all right. Maybe I could give you a ring sometime soon. If you’re not busy.’

  ‘Maybe you could at that. It’s in the phone book under G. Mulwray, that’s W-R-A-Y, 39 Kenrick Street, Prahran.’

  The information was immediately and forever engraved in Danny’s formidable memory.

  ‘Goodnight, then, Mischa.’

  ‘Goodnight, Danny Goldfingers.’ She stood still, with her arms by her side looking, in silhouette, like a soldier in uniform with the helmet under her arm. Danny stepped forward, placing a hand around her waist and kissing her demurely on the cheek, just at the corner of her lips. When he drew away she looked him in the eye, not smiling or saying anything, the lips tantalisingly ajar, as if she were patiently awaiting his next, more serious advance. Danny kissed her again, this time on her upturned mouth and when, after a few moments he felt her responding and then playfully brushing her moistened lips against his drier ones, a kind of euphor
ic haziness like a dope rush spread its velvety fingers all the way through him. He became aware that the kiss had stopped only when he opened his eyes and saw her features framed in casino lighting and felt warm puffs of her orange-scented breath on his face.

  ‘How was that?’ she whispered.

  ‘Delicious,’ he whispered back. ‘Do it again if you want to.’

  But she sprang into action, donning the helmet, pulling on the gloves, straddling the bike and kick-starting it first try. ‘Ring me tomorrow afternoon why don’t you?’ she said, and before Danny could reply or even say goodnight she was on her way, a shimmering tail-light disappearing between the endless rows of vehicles towards the carpark tollbooth.

  4

  Nobody in the bar even bothered to glance sideways when the young woman’s double Jack Daniel’s and Drambuie slipped from her hand, immediately after which she slid noiselessly off her stool and followed the glass all the way down to the scummy floor. This was, after all, the third time she’d pulled that little stunt in the past half hour – she was getting good at it. The bespectacled barman with the silver drop earrings and rat’s tails heard the thump and said to one of the three men with her, who were in ripped jeans or workshorts with T-shirts hanging loose and dirty boots, ‘I think your girlfriend needs some help, buddy.’

  The young man, who was loud and packed with hard muscle and had tattoos that looked as if they’d been gouged in with a hot fork on the backs of his hands and up his arms, swayed away from his ring of mates and shouted, ‘Whassa’, legen’?’

  ‘Your girlfriend’s had enough for one day. She needs to go home. Like now.’ Turning away to serve someone, the barman, who was normally the most placid of people, snarled out of the side of his mouth: ‘And so do you, you bigmouth shitbag.’