THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE

by Mark Russell

  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.

  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.'