Peter Corris - Casino

‘Squeaky clean, it appears.’

‘No way. I remember a couple of those pieces- there’s something funny going on in that business structure but we just haven’t got the time or resources to ferret it out. I could put you in touch with the bloke who did the articles.’

‘Wouldn’t hurt,’ I said.

Harry scribbled on the back of a discarded galley sheet. ‘Ivan Novacek, young but bright. I know he had some more stuff on the casino mob but it didn’t look like panning out as gold and we couldn’t keep him on it any longer.’ He pointed at my notebook. ‘You need to run all those names past someone who has access to corporate and business records. You look for some pattern, some concentration of interests and then you sniff hard at that. Sounds dull, huh? Much more painstaking stuff than your slap-dash methods.’

I took the paper and put it in my left pocket, reaching across my body to get there.

‘What’s wrong with your arm?’

‘I hurt it lifting weights.’

‘You’ve never lifted a weight in your life. Hey, Cliff, something’s going on, right? You’ve got that look.’

‘What look?’

‘There’s a look you get when something’s really pissing you off. Plus you’ve taken a few knocks recently. You look rougher than usual, except for the haircut. I thought you wanted a quieter life?’

‘Wanting isn’t getting. Thanks, Harry. I appreciate the help. I’ll talk to your bloke and if there’s anything in it for you I’ll see him right.’

‘See if you can get some sex into it. Personally, I’m tired of sex and I suppose it’s showing. I’ve been accused of not having enough about it in the rag. Mind you, I’ve also been criticised for never having printed anything about Elvis what’s-his-name.’

‘Sex. I’ll try to remember. Do you like a police corruption angle?’

‘Love it. You might get yourself in dutch with Glen, though. How is she, by the way?’

‘Fine,’ I said.

‘Sorry, I need the chair.’ Abi had arrived with a stack of floppy disks in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. I got up from the chair and winced as I pushed off with the left arm.

‘Shit, you’re really hurting.’

‘Only when I move. Thanks again, Harry. ‘Bye Abi.’

She fluttered her fingers the way Vita Drewe had done. Another Cabaret fan. I tried it myself as I left the office and Harry laughed. I think it was the only laugh I’d heard so far that day. Good old Harry. I thought about his remark that he was sick of sex as I rode the lift down to the ground floor. Harry used to be quite keen on sex, but only on a part-time basis. When he was a hotshot reporter on the News, he seemed to go without everything for long stretches-sex, food, drink, sleep-except Camel cigarettes. But sometimes he binged. I remembered the six-foot redhead he’d turned up with at the Moody-Rosso fight and wondered what had happened to her. For that matter, I wondered what had happened to Moody and Rosso. Gloomy thoughts, impropriate to a night on the town.

I walked back to the office, arriving sweaty and tired and telling myself I’d have time for a short sleep before picking up Vita. I loaded the precious cargo-my soup-and-fish and the orchids-and set off for Glebe. I even stopped along the way to buy a tin of tuna, a steak and a couple of bottles of Yellowglen champagne to put the cat, Dylan, me and Vita in the right mood.

She did look great in sequins. Mind you, there weren’t many of them-just a scattering around the neck and on the shoulder of her short, tight black silk dress. She wore shoes that lifted her height to within an inch of mine and the hair was all brushed out into a crinkly mop that framed her face. Her make-up was not what you’d called restrained-heavy lipstick and eye shadow. She showed me the long, white silk scarf she planned to drape around her shoulders and the black patent leather purse she planned to carry.

I was trying not to look too impressed by her appearance. ‘With the Beretta inside.’

‘Of course. I won’t kiss you just now. You don’t want to get this goo on your nice, smooth face. Later.’

She gave the steak to the dog and I opened one of the bottles of champagne. ‘I haven’t got any of those jazzy glasses,’ she said. ‘What should we drink it out of?’

‘Anything.’ She was oddly put together, with wide shoulders, small breasts, a flat stomach and slightly jutting backside. She was ever so slightly knock-kneed. I wanted to run my hands over the whole lot, to explore her. I reached out and stroked her hip as she moved away with the open bottle in her hand.

‘Mmm. I’d fuck you now,’ she said. ‘Except that climbing into this outfit, what d’you call it, these togs? It took me like an hour.’

‘Same here.’

‘And you look real nice. Hang there, I’ll just get something to

… ‘

‘Shit! I forgot!’ I rushed out the back door and through the yard where Dylan didn’t look up from his steak. I’d left the cool pack on the wall as I’d juggled the bottles to get through the gate. I reclaimed it and came back inside, feeling young and foolish. I presented her with the flowers.

‘Drums and trumpets,’ I said.

‘Baby, you’re going to have to wash your face.’

She kissed me and although my first sexually charged kiss was something like thirty years in the past, I could remember it and this felt something like the same. I was pleased and scared at the same time as I returned the pressure. I didn’t feel foolish any more, just young. She broke away.

‘Thank you, they’re lovely. You’re a very nice man.’

I was dry-throated and aching for her, tasting her lipstick and smelling her perfume.

‘You’re embarrassed,’ she said. ‘Cliff, we can both walk away from all this, right. Not tonight, not tonight, but… like, you know.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Go and get the vegemite glasses, maybe you’d call them jelly glasses, while I scrub this goo off my face.’

She pointed to the box of tissues on top of the TV set. ‘Tough guy.’

‘You bet.’

I took a couple of tissues and rubbed at my mouth. I also opened the purse. Sure enough, the Beretta was there. Why not? I thought. Smash the rules.

Vita drove. Valet parking. We went up the stairs under the chandeliers and through the illuminated archway that led to the reception area. The archway proved to be a metal detector and it shrilled as Vita passed under it. The uniformed man who approached her got a sweet smile and the Beretta. He looked unfazed, as if an Uzi might have caused him to raise an eyebrow. He issued Vita with a receipt and waved us on. That would certainly focus some attention on us, but I wasn’t worried about that. Anyway, Vita in that dress with those trimmings, was going to attract plenty of attention anyway.

We skipped the bar in favour of the buffet, both needing something to blot up the champagne. A chattering crowd of smartly dressed people, some startlingly young. Smoked salmon, avocado, lobster pieces, crusty bread, Perrier. We ate standing up, watching multi-coloured fish swim around in a large tank.

‘Why’re we here?’ she said.

I held up a biscuit with a piece of lobster and a slice of avocado balanced on it. ‘For the grub, Vi, and to win a pile of dough.’

She used the end of her scarf to flick a crumb from her dress. ‘Well, that sure would be nice, but it is also horseshit.’

‘Keep your eyes open for the man you saw in the car the night Scott came to the office. I’ll be looking for the two who broke into my car.’

‘What if we see them?’

‘We’ll discuss it. Come on, let’s try our luck.’

We went into one of the gaming rooms. Three roulette wheels, three blackjack dealers and a craps table. Gambling bores me, but people don’t. The crowd had built up quickly and the air was developing that ripe smell of tobacco smoke, perfume and liquor. The casino was enforcing a dress code of jacket, collar and tie for men and nothing less formal than tailored slacks suits for women. Most of the females were in glad rags of one kind or another, long and short-skirted, and at least half the men wore evening clothes. Uniforms destroy identity, masking class, income, occupation and means. I suppose that’s the point. Nevertheless, some individuals stood out-a tall, silver-haired tycoon type handed chips to an anorexic blonde who was feeding them to a blackjack dealer as if she was playing a slot machine; an immaculately dressed Chinese couple were having a run of luck on a roulette wheel and gathering an audience; a thin, nervous-looking man in an ill-fitting dinner suit (probably hired, like mine) was throwing craps as if his life depended on the outcome. And his life was slipping away with every throw.