Peter Corris - Casino

She made the turns, driving carefully, the adrenalin rush diminishing. ‘Why’d you tell me to turn left back there?’

‘Which way would you have gone?’

‘I don’t know. I’d probably have stopped.’

I reached over and stroked her hair, feeling the wiry frizz turn soft in my fingers. ‘That’s why. We had a one in three chance-you have to gamble.’

She nodded. ‘I get it. It’s not quite like in the movies, huh? Did you see that dumb flick when Debra Winger… like, she can’t drive at all, right? She gets in this car and drives through the city. Really dumb.’

‘Legal Eagle?’ I said. ‘Yeah, Glen got it out on video and…’

She shot me a look. ‘Aha. Glen, eh? What would that be-Glenda?’

‘Glenys.’

‘Glenys!’ I don’t fucking believe it! No one’s called Glenys.’

‘Vi… ‘

We had just made the turn into Broadway where the traffic was thickish and mixed-late night drunks, long-haul drivers and sober suburbanites, fresh from something frothy at the Entertainment Centre. She took both hands off the wheel and patted the air in front of her. ‘It’s OK. It’s OK! I’m screwing this guy called Ralph, off and on. Funny, I call him like Rafe, you know? He likes that… ‘

‘Put your hands back on the wheel. None of this’s worth dying for.’

‘You sure?’

Her long jaw was set and her hands, when she re-gripped the steering wheel, locked onto it like a dog gripping a bone.

‘Let’s talk about it at home.’

‘Before you fuck me or after?’

She took off from the lights jerkily, her front wheels straying into the next lane. I resisted the impulse to grab at the steering wheel, but held my right hand ready and kept my voice low and calm.

‘I thought this was all no-strings-attached stuff,’ I said. ‘I must have misunderstood.’

We passed the Ross Street corner, travelling too fast, just getting through on the amber. My hand was itching for the wheel.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘I’d like to talk about it.’

The driver’s side window was fully down; she tore off the corsage and flung it into the back seat. Some of the sequins came away from her dress and flickered through the air, falling inside and outside the car. We shot through the next set of lights on the green and she swerved into the right lane to avoid a slow-moving semi-trailer by inches. Its acrid exhaust filled the car and I coughed.

‘Cough, you weak bastard. Cough your fucking guts up.’

We were heading towards Norton Street, going much too fast, but not impeded by anything. I had to decide whether to let her make the turn or not. She swivelled her head, pressed down on the accelerator and spat at me, ‘Scared, tough guy?’

She increased speed and swung the wheel carelessly. I knocked her hands down, gripped the wheel and kicked her foot away from the gas pedal. The Pulsar slowed but fishtailed, narrowly missed the traffic light and almost collected a car making a late left turn. The front left wheel mounted the footpath, grazed a lamppost and I hauled it back, touching the brake, ready to steer into the skid. It took only split seconds but seemed to last an age. An awning post flashed past me and then the car was back on the road, slowing, steadying, straightening. My arm felt as if it had been loosened in the socket and I was grinding my teeth with the tension and effort.

I drew into the kerb and stopped with the rear end still sticking out into the street. Sweat was running off me and my vision was starred and blurred as I looked out through the windscreen at the moving lights and shapes. Vita Drewe was almost crouched in her seat, pressed back towards the door, arms wrapped across her body, legs drawn up. She was staring fixedly at my hand which was locked on the steering wheel. Suddenly, she lashed out at my face, whipping her left arm around, flailing wildly. I blocked the blow, she whimpered and her head sunk onto her chest.

I got out of the car, opened her door and eased her across into the passenger seat. She didn’t resist-just as well because I couldn’t have lifted her. I started the motor, employed my right-hand-across technique and drove slowly to Lilyfield. She sat bolt upright in the seat and didn’t say a word. I stopped in the lane outside the gate. Dylan padded down the yard and stuck his nose through the bars. I opened my door.

‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ she snapped.

‘I just want to make sure you’re all right.’

She threw open the door, banging it on one of the heavy garbage bins in the lane. ‘What you can do is fuck off.’

‘Vi, I… ‘

She fished in her purse and for a moment I thought she was going to pull out the gun, but she came up with a key. ‘Get going, or I’ll tell Dylan to take a chunk out of your miserable hide.’

She unlocked the gate, went through and slammed it after her. I heard her heels clicking on the path and waited until I saw a light come on in the flat. Dylan came back to the gate and looked through it at me, growling. I drove slowly down the lane, partly dazed by the violence of her reactions, partly puzzled about what had set her off. The car steered oddly and I got out to look. The front bumper bar had twisted when it had hit the lamppost and part of it was brushing against the tyre. I straightened it with my right hand. But the panel above it was buckled and the radiator grill had also taken a knock.

I got going again and hadn’t covered more than half a kilometre when a police car drew up alongside me and waved me to the kerb. The policeman approached cautiously.

‘Are you all right, sir? You seem to be driving very slowly.’

‘I’ve had an argument with someone,’ I said. ‘She smashed the car a bit in the front. Just being cautious.’

He went forward and examined the damage. ‘Could I see your licence, please?’

I showed it to him and he looked in closely at me. He would have seen a lot of strain, some facial bruising, lipstick, sweat and a bow tie very askew.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to take a breathalyser test. If you’ve no objection?’

I did a rapid calculation: two glasses of champagne some hours back, a double bourbon and two beers on top of a pretty light meal. It’d be touch and go. I climbed out of the car. ‘No objection.’

He went back to his car and he and his partner prepared the machine and registered the time, date and place of the test on a form. I blew into the tube and watched their expressions.

‘Had a bit to drink tonight, sir?’ one of them said.

‘A little. Not a great deal. I wasn’t expecting to be driving.’

‘Probably shouldn’t be. You look pretty crook.’

‘It’s been an upsetting night.’

‘You just sneak in. How far do you have to go?’

I told him and he said I could go, advising me to be careful and instructing me to get the damage to the car attended to immediately. I drove away with exaggerated care. I could see their headlights in my rear vision mirror and it seemed like an age before I could make a turn to get away from them. I went through Annandale, picked up Wigram Road and went up the hill into Glebe. I was driving on automatic pilot, still numbed by the recent events, resisting the impulse to analyse them until I was out of the car. I turned into my street and narrowly missed a taxi that was just pulling out.

Its lights dazzled me briefly and when I recovered I saw Glen Withers standing with her bags at her feet outside the house, shielding her eyes against the headlights as the battered front end of her precious car came towards her.

Glen’s welcoming, but slightly surprised, smile faded as she saw the state of her car. I sat behind the wheel, dazed and confused by guilt and apprehension. She approached the open window and looked in at me.