Peter Corris - Deal Me Out

‘I hope you are taking this seriously.’

‘I am. Believe me. I’m expecting to meet up with him sooner or later, and I’m not looking forward to it.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that meeting. He’d be capable of swift self-destruction if the schizophrenia is as extreme as it appears from your account.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Do you have any other observations, other signs of distress?’

‘You name it-heroin, cocaine, abstinence from alcohol’ I fidgeted with the things on the table and my hand touched the pamphlet. ‘Oh, yes, it could be that he’s into SM-bondage, discipline, whips and chains, that sort of stuff.’

‘That’s dangerous, very dangerous. In his heightened emotional state he could do terrible damage to himself and others.’

‘What about this book he’s writing? How do you see that in the scheme of things?’

‘That’s worrying too. There are so many associations-book as child, book as life force, book as legacy. Are you following me?’

‘I think so. He could equate finishing the book with finishing his life.’

‘It’s possible. It’s urgent that he be found.’

‘If I find him and he seems to be crazy, can I bring him to you first?’

‘It would depend on what he’d done.’

‘What if he’d done the worst things that you and I can think of?’

He paused and I could imagine his burly body tense with concentration while his workman’s hands were busy with pencil and pad. ‘Of course you must bring him to me. I’ll give you my private number.’ He did, and I wrote it down. ‘Do you expect to catch up with him soon?’

‘Soon or never, from what you say, Doctor. Will this number get you anytime over the next couple of days?’

He said it would, and I rang off feeling that, somehow, the stakes had mounted, the pot had got bigger and my hand had stayed the same. That feeling intensified when I finally got through to Grant Evans in Melbourne. I could sense Grant’s reluctance to talk on an open line in the police building, and our conversation became cryptic, but we were both used to that.

‘It’s tip of the iceberg stuff, Cliff.’

‘I thought it might be. The cars are a sideline to… what?’

‘Insurance fraud, among other things. Look, I can’t talk on this line.’

I knew what was coming: the old, old story of organisations closing ranks to protect members no matter how undeserving. Grant interpreted my silence correctly. ‘Look, Cliff,’ he said angrily. ‘It’s not just that. I remember one of your rules, what was it? Never knowingly work for I completed the phrase for myself- politicians and unions. Again, Grant knew what I was thinking.

‘Precisely,’ he said. ‘Keep out of it, Cliff.’

For the rest of the afternoon I divided my time between looking through Mountain’s manuscript, re-reading some letters Helen had sent me and staring at the sleeping cat. Phrases from Mountain’s writing began to etch themselves on my mind: Most people only get half-fucked, half-drunk and half-drugged. It’s hard work going all the way.

It struck me that perhaps Lambert was wrong- Mountain’s synopsis had energy and violence and sex, but, as I read and re-read, I detected a lack of humour. Death, drugs and sex can be as funny as anything else, properly handled, and I thought I could recall a few good laughs in The Godfather. It would be the final irony if Bill Mountain’s possibly posthumous book was a flop.

I tried to imagine myself in his place. It wasn’t easy. Somewhere, he was sitting writing the thing, stone cold sober or drugged to the hairline. He had plans, maybe a major, double-edged strategy with fall-back positions. He’d covered a lot of ground in a very short time, and there was something single-minded and purposeful in his actions. He’d left clues and was aware of being pursued. In the book, Morgan Shaw saw his pursuers as the car thieves and drug dealers whom he’d offended by moving in on their areas of operation. He harried the one and eluded the other; shut himself up and worked on his film script. No jokes. I shut up the folder and shoved it under a telephone directory. That dislodged an ashtray which spilled Erica’s butts and ash on the floor. The tobacco and ash smelled stale and old-that wasn’t funny either. Another Shaw/Mountain gem came back to me: I was ready to kill myself, and I felt so good about taking this control over my own life that I was only sorry that I hadn’t had anything to do with being born.

I was wearing the same outfit as before when I rang the bell at Ginny Ireland’s apartment, except that my shirt was clean, and I had the gun in a holster inside my pants around the back from my left hip. The bulge would show if I took my jacket off, but from what I’d seen of parties lately there was hardly enough light to see the cheese dip so a slight gun bulge wouldn’t be a problem.

Ginny opened the door and hurled herself through it, at me. I got her strong arms around my neck and a smacking kiss that almost put me down for a count. She was wearing red high heels, tight red pants and a blouse that looked to be made of gold leaf. She hauled me into the apartment.

‘You yummy man, yummy, yummy. That was so sweet of you last night. Most men would’ve… well, thank you.’

I waved my hand modestly and followed her through to the kitchen, where the gin fumes were competing with the sweet smell of marijuana. She picked up a long, fat joint, re-lit it and held it out to me after inhaling deeply herself.

I picked up the Beefeater bottle. ‘Later,’ I said. ‘I’ll start on this.’

‘Lush.’ She poured a hefty slug of gin, splashed in some tonic and just hit the rim of the glass with a slice of lemon so that the lemon dropped in. Then she forgot to give me the glass. I reached over and took it.

She giggled. ‘I was so smashed last night, and I’m telling you when I woke up and saw that aspirin and that water, boy, I’d have given you anything you wanted, there and then.’

I grinned. ‘Well, as I say, later.’

She seemed to find that the funniest thing she’d ever heard. She laughed and choked on her next drag. I patted her on the back, gently so as not to tear the gold leaf. Up close there was a synthetic quality to her that was dimmed by distance. Her hair was dyed and the big eyes were a product of pencil and brush more than something nature had given her. The skin along her jaw was beginning to sag and last night’s session had left slight pouches under her eyes that would deepen as she ran one good time into the next.

We finished our drinks and she went off to add some more touches to the art work. When she came back she smelled strongly and freshly of the perfume that had gone stale on her last night.

‘Okay, Cliffy?’

I pointed to the bag of grass on the kitchen bench. ‘Not taking the dope?’

She laughed. ‘To one of Dee’s parties? You must be joking. She’d be insulted.’

We trooped across to number seven. A big man in a white jacket and dark pants was standing by the door trying to look like a guest, but succeeding in looking like a bouncer. Ginny smiled at him and he gave her a quick nod, me a hard stare, and opened the door. The noises and the smells hit like a head-high tackle: insistent, driving rock music, a rush of voices and thick, spicy smoke. The apartment was similarly laid out to Ginny Ireland’s, except that the decor was more flamboyant: polished boards with tiger skins in the hall and woven beaded hangings on the wall that showed erotic scenes in a certain amount of strategic relief. The party was being held in a big double room with the dividing cedar doors thrown back: the ceilings were mostly mirrored as were the walls; the floor was a deep white cloud and there were two conversation pits, a number of low poufs covered with animal skins and a couple of things that looked like trampolines but were probably couches. In one corner of the room there was a well stocked bar. The topless attendant wore high heels and fishnet stockings and also had the job of feeding cassettes into the huge Sony tape deck.