Set up, p.5
Set Up, page 5
part #1 of Luke Dunlop Series
Dunlop spent the next six hours at the club. He drank drink for drink with Dan Simpson for an hour and then the professional passed him over to a group of members who appeared anxious to have something to celebrate.
'Hole-in-one? You beauty! Tell us about it.'
Somewhere along the line, Dunlop ate a steak sandwich, but he'd switched from light to full strength beer and after his long semi-abstinence his alcohol tolerance was low.
'This fuckin' recession. Everyone's hurting.'
'We need the bloody GST.'
'Be buggered we do.'
'A seven iron? I'd use an eight on the eighteenth. Why'd you hit a seven?'
'Shit, what does it feel like? Is it anything like your first fuck?'
'Better, I bet.'
The rain thundered on the clubhouse roof. Some members' cars failed to start. Others abandoned thoughts of driving home in the downpour and, released from that responsibility, stayed to drink.
'My shout.'
'Where's the ball? The club'll mount it for you, won't it, Leo?'
'It's pissing down. Getting heavier.'
'Have another beer, Lucas. It's not every day, you know. I've been playing for thirty years. Thirty years and I've fuckin' never . . .'
The rain stopped at ten o'clock and the club secretary rode home with Dunlop in a cab.
'Night to remember, eh, Lucas?'
Dunlop nodded. Somehow he got his key in the gate. 'Thanks, Leo. Terrific.'
'Don't make a habit of scoring aces. Bad for our livers. Ha, ha.'
Dunlop had never had a hangover. Carter had had the hangovers and he was welcome to them. Dunlop awoke with his head throbbing and his mouth dry. His vision was blurred and his bladder was bursting. He rushed to the bathroom, pissed for what seemed like five minutes and then dived under a cold shower.
'Never again,' he said.
Drying off, he remembered the hole-in-one with a small thrill of pleasure. But the headache was too bad to allow him to remain thrilled for long. He drank chilled orange juice and swallowed aspirin. The headache receded and his vision cleared. He shaved with a shaking hand and took a rare look at himself in the mirror. His eyes were red and the lids drooped like those of the junkie whores he'd dealt with. He scrubbed at his teeth until the water he rinsed out was pink. He put on shorts and a T-shirt and thought about taking a walk but wasn't up to it. He still felt lousy. Usually he drank instant coffee, now he hunted out the percolator and the ground beans. His eye fell on the bottle of brandy he kept for cooking. He made the coffee and poured a slug into the cup. He drank it hot and felt immediately better. He had another laced cup and felt better still.
'Eggs,' he said. 'Jesus, I'm talking to myself. Okay, could you eat some eggs?'
He had the eggs and, with the food inside him and the brandy glow, felt normal or better than normal. Then the guilt struck: You fucking idiot. Who did you talk to? What did you say? What if one of the clients had called in? He rushed to the answering machine. No messages. Okay, no damage done. Shit, it could happen to anyone. A hole-in-one, just like when Kat . . .
He sat down suddenly, weak in the knees, remembering the bunker . . .
'Oh, yes, don't get sand on it.'
'Kat, Kat . . .'
'Oh, oh, let me feel it first. Christ, it's hard. We have to be quick. Put it in! Put it in!'
'No, no. Oh, God, no. Kat . . .'
Dunlop stared at the white kitchen wall. He'd painted all the walls white and had all the floorboards polished. What other colour was there for walls? What else did you do with floors? He had no pictures and no rugs. He drank more coffee with brandy. He wished he had pictures and rugs. Something to look at, patterns to trace. He was drunk again and at ten-thirty in the morning. He giggled as he looked at his watch.
Nausea hit him and he vomited everything he'd eaten into the toilet. He was left with the alcohol rushing around in his drained, dehydrated system. He wandered through the house—the sparse bedroom, the room with the silent, blank computer screen, the narrow passage with its polished boards and empty walls. In the sitting room the television set was half-obscured by a curtain flapping through a slightly open window. He rarely watched television—sport, when he knew from the radio and papers that a big event was on, the occasional documentary. He had a VCR for professional purposes but had never hired a video movie.
He looked at his watch again. Almost eleven. So what? Then he remembered—'Before Lunch', the program featuring Cassie May Loew, showing housewives and business executives and convicted criminals how to reshape their bodies and minds with exercise and the right foods. Dunlop snorted, sat down and flicked the curtain away. He turned on the set and channel-hopped until he found the program.
'That was the gardening segment. This is "Before Lunch" and we're going to the news,' the announcer said. Colours swirled on the screen. Dunlop felt sick.
'Prime Minister Bob Hawke was under attack today . . .'
Dunlop's mind drifted as he watched the screen. Grey-suited men talked to other grey-suited men all around the world. They boarded aeroplanes and flew away. They landed, disembarked and kissed each other on the cheeks. The planet belonged to the men in the grey suits. Dunlop had once worn a grey suit himself, with a tie, and a blue suit, and before that a suit with buttons and flaps . . .
'After the break, Cassie May Loew.'
Dunlop leaned forward.
7
Nothing in the image on the computer screen had prepared Dunlop for the impact the woman made in living colour on television. She was sitting in a white room wearing a black leotard. She was small with a cap of gleaming black hair. She was not pretty; her features looked rather flat and her mouth was too big. She sat very still, then slowly slid into a series of stretching exercises. A voice-over commentary explained the purpose of the exercises and, in a small box in the top corner of the screen, Cassie May Loew translated the commentary into sign language.
The combination of images and voice was powerful. Dunlop stared fascinated as the woman moved rhythmically and with apparent ease through the complicated warm-up. Her face was as impassive as the exerciser; as the translator it was animated—she smiled, nodded, emphasised her flying fingers with movements of her head. Her teeth were slightly gapped and she had an overbite. She wore no jewellery of any kind; her nails were unpainted and her face and body appeared to be lightly tanned.
Dunlop fumbled a video cassette from its package, slid it into the slot and pressed RECORD. He sat back and watched. The camera moved over her body, providing close-ups of the muscles being worked. Her movements were slow and rippling; the muscles slid under the skin like perfectly oiled machine parts. She stroked herself lightly as she demonstrated the effect of each exercise. It was completely practical, almost clinical, but Dunlop found it utterly erotic. He became fully erect as he watched. Then the woman slipped back into her original sitting position.
'Aerobics with Cassie May Loew after this break.'
Dunlop's mouth was dry. He walked to the kitchen, moving awkwardly as he detumesced. He got a light beer from the fridge and returned to the living room. He watched impatiently as cartoon characters rhapsodised about washing powder. The phone rang. Although it was within reach, Dunlop ignored it and the answering machine picked up the call. He popped the can and took a long swallow. The icy beer hit him, reminded him of all the cold beers of the previous night and he almost gagged. He took another swig and the nausea receded.
Then she was back, wearing a white body suit and sweatbands. The music was unfamiliar to Dunlop, a rock beat with Latin overtones. Cassie May stepped high and fast, lifted her arms, sprang forward and back. A very light sweat broke out on her face and body. Dunlop stared, taking in details: her underarms were shaved, she had light down on her upper lip; her hands and feet were long and slender, almost out of proportion but not quite. She looked nothing like modern sprinters, strong in the upper body; she was more like a gymnast with small, hard breasts and a trained-down bottom. The phone rang and Dunlop ignored it again.
The music stopped. Cassie May stood with her legs slightly apart and her hands on her hips. 'See you next week and remember, fibre fights fat.' She slapped her buttocks hard, mimed agony and collapsed into a graceful lotus position. Her gap-toothed, wide-mouthed grin sent a shock-wave through Dunlop's abused system. He drained the can as the image blanked out.
'Jesus,' he said.
The phone rang and he snatched it up. 'What?'
'Hey, Lucas, easy. I guess you've got a sore head this morning. This is Leo, from the club.'
'Oh, yes, sorry, Leo. You're right. I'm hungover.'
'Me too. Just wanted to tell you that your car got bogged in last night's rain but we've hauled it out. Your clubs're here too, don't forget.'
'Right. Thanks. I'll be down later.'
'Good. Drop the ball in at the pro shop and we'll mount it for you.'
Dunlop's headache was coming back. Talking over the sound of the TV wasn't helping. 'I'll do that.'
'Listen, you wouldn't have got that ace today.'
'Why's that?'
'Have you had a look outside? We got a couple of inches last night. Greens're dead.'
Dunlop thanked the secretary again and hung up. He switched the answering machine to broadcast and played the messages. Both were from Leo—the first with the news that the Laser was bogged, the second about its being freed. Good, no desperate clients. He erased the messages and used the remote control to turn off the television set. The whirring noise reminded him that he had a tape running. He stopped it, wound it back, turned the television on again and went to the fridge for another beer. He drank it slowly as he watched Cassie May Loew again and again. The last time he used the frame advance to study her final expression as it began and grew.
Outside, the rain-washed air was clean and the water had activated good smells in the suburban gardens. The walk to the golf course cleared his head and stretched the muscles that had cramped up during his awkward, drunken sleep. He collected his clubs and located the ball in his bag. At least he thought it was the right one and what the hell difference did it make? He left it at the pro shop. Dan Simpson was off playing his tournament and his young, pimple-faced assistant treated Dunlop with considerable respect.
Dunlop resisted an invitation to have a drink from two members who had completed a round, although he was tempted. He put his clubs in the boot and gently eased the Laser out of the soggy car park. He cast a fond look at the eighteenth hole as he drove past. A small, dark woman was teeing off in a sudden patch of sunshine and for an instant Dunlop thought it was Cassie May Loew and his pulse rose. He swore at himself and stepped on the gas. Pull yourself together. You're acting like a horny kid.
He noticed his rolled towel with the swimming trunks inside on the back seat. He hadn't touched them since his aborted trip to Bondi. The ocean would be too cold for him in his fragile state, but the pool in Enmore Park was heated. He drove there, hired a locker and changed. The pool was semi-enclosed under an arched steel and glass canopy; it smelled strongly of chlorine and Dunlop nearly baulked. He saw a lap-swimmer climb out, leaving a lane free, and lowered himself quickly in at the shallow end. The tepid water was slightly colder as he stroked to the deep end and he could feel the soothing effects of the swim. He had swum at Clovelly and the adjacent beaches almost from babyhood and he had a powerful and effective style, if not great speed. He swam ten laps freestyle, resting briefly after the fifth. At first he concentrated on the stroke rhythm and the kick, then it became automatic. As with all good swimmers, breathing was not a problem. In the tenth lap he realised that his hair was getting in his eyes and that the chlorine was stinging. He climbed out and recovered his towel.
The pool was well-patronised. Who're all these young blokes with tans? Why aren't they at work? There were older people, white and flabby, stroking slowly up and down. And young mothers, parking the kids in the outside wading pool and hurrying to get in a few quick laps. Dunlop dried off and pushed back his thick, slightly wavy brown hair. He blinked his eyes to clear them of the chlorine. A woman walking past thought he was winking at her and winked back. She was tall and strongly built with heavy breasts and good legs. Dunlop wasn't interested.
He left the pool feeling none of the release and relaxation he'd hoped for. He drove poorly, full of tension and irritation. What had Loew recommended? A few rounds of golf and supplements. Bugger Loew; he needed a drink. He stopped in Victoria Road at a cheap liquor outlet and bought a bottle of Johnnie Walker red label. After several years of ignorance of the cost of liquor he was shocked at the price, despite the discount. He drove to Park Road and left the car in front of the house, a thing he rarely did, but he was anxious for the liquor and the moving image of Cassie May Loew.
He drank, watched the tape again and then switched on his computer. He brought the bottle and glass with him and had another drink while accessing the file. He scrolled through until he got to the section he'd bypassed before—the media reports on the courtship and marriage of his client. Dunlop read them all obsessively, although the information they had to convey was minuscule. Broadly, Loew's account was confirmed. He had written to the aerobics instructor and she had replied. Several variations were given, however. One writer hinted that Loew had known Cassie previously, when both were different kinds of desperadoes. Another asserted that it was a second marriage for both.
One article claimed to know what the bride had worn—an off-white lace dress with a short shirt. Dunlop groaned at the thought of it. Another piece claimed to be based on 'sources close to the celebrant'. It ventured that the bridegroom—the perpetrator of armed holdups, the prison escapee and standover man—was 'visibly nervous and fumbled his responses'.
The sleaziest of the publications had mocked-up a photograph of the happy couple in wedding clothes. The head of Cassie May, wearing her trade-mark wide smile, was superimposed on a slender body decked out in an elaborate satin and lace wedding gown. Kerry Loew's head-shot, dating from his longhaired, bearded days, was grim and menacing. The muscleman body below it wore a morning suit with an enormous flower in the lapel. The caption was the inevitable: 'Beauty and the Beast'.
A car alarm whooped briefly in the street but Dunlop paid it no attention. The advice he had been given about living in the suburbs had proved correct; he did not know the names of his neighbours and did no more than exchange nods with them. The street contained a mixture of Anglos, Greeks, Asians and Arabs—there was very little fraternisation. The children socialised, the adults kept to themselves.
Dunlop made notes as he read and drank. He would check up on the 'previous acquaintance' and 'second marriage' allegations. Looking at the crudely faked photograph he felt anger and did not know on whose account. He had consumed nearly half the bottle on a delicate and empty stomach after strenuous exercise. He was light-headed, drunk and in turmoil. He turned off the computer and sat in the dim room staring at the wall. He had been told that the life of a case-officer had its downs, that the shadowy, deceptive world brought with it depression, even despair. So far, he'd felt none of that. Was this it?
He heard a banging and rattling at his gate and a young voice raised. 'Hey, mister. Mister!'
Dunlop moved towards his front door, struggling to walk straight and manage the handles. He opened the door, pushed the flywire screen out and stopped on the tiled porch.
'What? What is it?'
'Is your car the blue Laser?'
'Yeah.'
'Been broken into, mister. You better take a look.'
Cursing, Dunlop went back into the house and scrabbled for his keys. He found them and went out into the street. The bringer of the bad news sat astride his bicycle as if poised to take off fast. The driver's window of the Laser was down and the door was wide open. The boot had been sprung and the lid quivered.
'Jesus Christ!' Dunlop prowled around the car, taking in the situation. The electronic alarm had been neutralised quickly but the thief had been unable to contend with the wheel-locking device which was why the car had not been driven away. The attack on the boot had been an act of bravado or frustration. In any event, his golf clubs were gone.
'Going to call the cops, mister?'
Dunlop forced himself to look calmly at the small boy whose multi-coloured helmet made him resemble a Martian. Why do they have to wear those bloody things? I rode from Clovelly to Maroubra for years and never came off once. Rode to Ryde to play cricket . . .
'No, son. I'll just put it in the garage like I should've in the first place.'
'See you, mister.' The kid pedalled away on the footpath.
Dunlop slammed the boot closed, got in the driver's seat and disengaged the wheel lock. He knew he was too drunk to drive, even around into the lane. He sat in the car and curled his arms around the steering wheel. His head was throbbing and he let it sag forward. On reflection, he was surprised that he'd even set the alarm. He hiccupped and giggled. The ball he'd scored the hole-in-one with was being mounted, and the club he'd used was on its way to some hock-shop. What the hell Need new clubs. Those were Carter's clubs. Needed a new name, new car, new house, new woman . . .
He willed himself not to pass out and slowly climbed from the car. He wound up the window and closed the door; the lock failed to engage. That would need fixing and the alarm would need reprogramming. He went back into the house and poured the remainder of the whisky into the sink. Then he set the coffee machine going and ran a shower with the water as hot as he could bear. He scrubbed himself with a rough face washer. He shampooed his hair and let the steam envelop him. Then he shut off the hot water and stood under hard, stinging cold jets until his flesh crept and every hair on his body stood on end. He twisted his head up under the shower rose, opened his mouth and drank the cold water like a thirsty camel.
After three cups of coffee, he felt steady enough to move the car to the garage. He activated the garage's alarm system and wandered through the backyard to the house. The previous owners, a Vietnamese family, had established a vegetable garden, sadly neglected by Dunlop. He was surprised to see green beans about to ripen on three thriving plants. He hadn't glanced at that corner of the yard for weeks. It occurred to him that he had never eaten a single mouthful of food grown by himself. The beans looked healthy, no bugs or rot. Remnants of the protective screen that had been placed over the garden plot—a rough wooden frame with strips of plastic attached—were intact and would protect the vegetables from birds. Dunlop was touched; he resolved to pick and eat the beans.
