by Peter Corris
'What's that?'
'He's a golfer. I lined it up for you to play a round with him. I'm going to drive the little car. Won't that be fun?'
'Yeah,' Dunlop said. 'When's this?'
'At eleven this morning. Shit, I'd better get ready. Order me some breakfast, will you?'
Dunlop lifted the phone. 'What d'you want?'
Ava tucked her breast back inside the nightdress and stood. The short garment tightened and Dunlop could see the dark smudge of her pubic hair.
Ava smiled at him. 'Juice, coffee and Panadol.'
Ava performed the introductions. Bushmill showed no signs of embarrassment at having slept with the sister of the man he was to play golf with. His handshake was firm and dry. He looked to have recovered from the night of sin better than Ava.
'Hi there,' he said. 'Guess I'll have to rent some clubs. That's a nice set you've got there, Luke.'
'Bought with the inheritance, weren't they, Luke?' Ava said.
Dunlop coughed and fiddled with a wood cover.
'You see, Kent,' Ava said. 'Our father died just a little while ago. He left us a good bit of money and we're sort of getting re-acquainted and spending some of it.'
They strolled in the direction of the pro shop. Bushmill wore white slacks and Nike sneakers, a polo shirt and a Panama hat. Ava was in white stretch pants, medium heels and a loose floral-patterned shirt. Dunlop's faded jeans and red T-shirt were old and comfortable, like his sneakers. His gun was in a pocket of his golf bag. Bushmill slapped at flies with his hat.
'Guess we're going to need a few things. Hats for you two for a start. Isn't that hell about the hole in the ozone layer?'
'Hell,' Dunlop said.
'Then there's sunscreen, insect repellent and lip cream.'
Ava nodded. 'Definitely.'
They hired clubs for Bushmill and a motorised buggy, the operation of which the professional's assistant explained to Ava. Bushmill purchased the other items, presenting Ava and Dunlop with straw hats.
Ava easily mastered the controls on the buggy. She tilted her hat over her eyes. 'How long's this going to take, boys?'
'Couple of hours,' Dunlop said.
The assistant tried to peer down the front of Ava's shirt as she stepped out of the buggy. 'You can get packed lunches and an Esky,' he said.
Bushmill paused in the middle of a practice stroke. 'What's an Esky?'
They showed him, loaded it with film-wrapped sandwiches and a six-pack of Powers bitter. Bushmill put his clubs in the buggy. Dunlop shouldered his bag. 'I'll walk. I need the exercise.'
Bushmill put his arm around Ava's shoulders as she steered the buggy towards the first tee.
After eight holes, Dunlop began to enjoy himself. The course was a sweet one that repaid straight hitting and punished the loose and reckless. Dunlop was a conservative player who shot for position and took care over club selection. Bushmill was flashy, with long drives that he tended to slice and aggressive irons that sometimes took him over the green. His short game was better than Dunlop's. He holed out of a bunker and put two awkward chips within millimetres of the cup. Dunlop found the greens kind and his putting was better than usual, but he tended to surrender strokes he'd picked up on the fairways. He was three strokes ahead as they approached the ninth.
'Small wager?' Bushmill said as he selected a wood.
The hole was a par four with a dogleg. Dunlop had decided to play an iron and negotiate the bend with his second shot. Bushmill's drive, he calculated, was destined for the long rough out to the left.
Ava reclined in the buggy under a clump of trees. 'Go on, Luke,' she said. 'Be a devil.'
'Fifty bucks,' Bushmill said, teeing his ball.
'You're betting you can pick up four strokes on me in ten holes?'
'Yup.'
'You're on.'
Bushmill replaced the wood, selected a two iron and lashed a dead straight shot down to the widest point of the fairway, just past the dogleg.
As Dunlop addressed his ball, Ava spoke. 'Can we break for a beer after this frame?'
'Hole, honey,' Bushmill said. 'Sure we can.'
Dunlop hooked his shot into the rough. He bogeyed the hole which was birdied by Bushmill. They sat under a shelter at the tenth, waving other players through and eating their lunch. Ava consumed two beers in rapid succession and preferred cigarettes to sandwiches. Bushmill sipped a beer and ate heartily.
'You play much at home?' Dunlop asked.
The American opened a beer and shared it with Ava. 'A bit. At the club, you know, and a couple of Pro-Ams, now and then. I played for Stanford some. Did you play in college?'
Dunlop's only tertiary schooling had been at the police academy. He grunted non-committally and bit into a salad roll.
'Luke was a policeman,' Ava said brightly. 'He didn't have much time for golf, or fun of any kind, really.'
'A cop, eh? That's interesting. What do you do now, Luke? Oh, I get it. You've inherited enough dough to retire on. Lucky stiff.'
'Something like that,' Dunlop said. 'We better get on with it before the rain comes.'
Dark clouds had gathered overhead and the air was warm and heavy. Bushmill carefully rubbed on sunburn cream and insect repellent. He gave Ava a long kiss before applying the protective lip gloss. Ava winked at Dunlop over the American's shoulder.
Bushmill parred the next four holes. Dunlop bogeyed the twelfth and they were even. They both parred the thirteenth and their drives finished on opposite sides of the fairway on the next hole, Bushmill's being the longer. Dunlop took the opportunity to speak to Ava before she motored across to join the American.
'I've been hustled,' he said.
Ava had drunk three cans of beer and was getting back to her best. Her white teeth flashed. 'He's a Yank businessman,' she said. 'What would you expect?'
'Is he going to be your playmate for the duration?'
'No, worse luck. He's off tonight. Anyway, I've got plans for tomorrow.'
'And what would they be?'
'I want to go to Cooktown.'
Dennis Tate enjoyed flying. He liked the idea of covering vast distances in style without personal effort. He travelled business class to Cairns, arriving fresh and alert, eager to conclude the arrangements which would facilitate his retirement. In fact, he thought of himself as a businessman and, in his light tropical suit, polished Italian shoes and carrying a slim briefcase, he looked like one. It was midday and hot when he arrived. The little airport reminded him of some in Africa; there was even a good number of dark faces to reinforce the impression. He took off his jacket and held it over his shoulder as he waited for his bag. He watched carefully to see if any interest was taken in him or if there was anything unusual in the appearance of his luggage. If such was the case, he would abandon the bag. It was unlikely—luggage carried in the holds of domestic aircraft was not X-rayed or otherwise inspected. He saw nothing to alarm him. He checked his watch; he was due to take an insulin injection in about an hour and would have to eat twenty minutes later.
He rented a Holden Calais at the Avis desk.
'How long to drive to Port Douglas?' he asked the young woman who escorted him to the car.
'It's a good road and there's not much traffic. In this car you'll do it comfortably in fifty minutes.'
The lush countryside had little appeal for Tate who preferred the rugged, bracing climate and geography of Tasmania. As well, the flat, green plain, cut by small streams and stretching away to thickly treed hills, reminded him uncomfortably of Vietnam where he had been often afraid and twice wounded. He concentrated on the road. Tate was mistrustful of comfort as a way of life, but was ready to embrace it while on a job as an aid to efficiency. He turned on the air-conditioning.
He had paid cash for his airline ticket and left a cash deposit with Avis. He did the same at the Oasis Resort, booking in as 'Harold Clements'. His room was Number 30 in the Malibu wing. He took his insulin, syringes and alcohol swabs from the briefcase, injected himself
and ordered a salad with fruit to be sent up immediately. He ate on the balcony overlooking the chlorinated lagoon, allowing himself one light wine spritzer which he concocted from the riesling and mineral water in the mini-bar. He carefully unpacked the few articles he had brought, stowing the clothes so that they could be quickly collected and re-packed. Then he sat down on the bed with the seven foil-wrapped items which had been distributed around different compartments of his bag. Assembled, they made up a custom-built, super-lightweight .22 calibre automatic pistol, with five rounds in the magazine and one in the breech. A silencer was spring-loaded into the handgrip.
For twenty minutes, Tate practised aiming the pistol and releasing and fixing the silencer. When he was satisfied he put the gun under the pillow, undressed, stretched out on the queen-sized bed and fell into a light sleep. The rain woke him an hour later. It hammered on the roof of the balcony and sprayed through the open sliding glass panel. Tate got up to close the door. He gazed out at the pool, its surface choppy in the breeze and pitted by the heavy rain. He was naked and glanced down at his body. He'd regained some of the weight he'd lost when the diabetes came on but he was still thin. That was best, they'd told him, and the diet kept him that way, but sometimes he felt a little undersized.
The rain stopped almost as suddenly as it had begun. The breeze dropped and the pool resumed its previous smooth, rippling appearance. The sun broke through as the clouds rolled away.
'Time to go hunting,' Tate said.
He used the glucometer to check his blood sugar. The reading was satisfactory. He put on shorts, a T-shirt and sneakers, hung a camera around his neck, picked up an apple and left the room. He had several hundred dollars in his pocket.
A young man dressed in whites with blue epaulettes, like a naval officer, opened the door that led to the nearest of the swimming pools.
'Thanks,' Tate said. 'Place looks a bit quiet.'
'We're two-thirds occupied, sir. Pretty good for this time of the year. Have a nice afternoon.'
Tate nodded and walked away. The hotel had 230 rooms. A born sceptic, experienced in the ways of hotels, he assumed that the young man was lying and that the resort was about half full. Say, 120 rooms occupied, maybe 200 people all up. He didn't doubt his ability to locate Ava Belfante and her companion, who was probably a male but not necessarily. He'd found smaller needles in bigger haystacks.
He put on a baseball cap and sunglasses and began a leisurely tour of the pools, outdoor bars and other facilities. He walked to the beach where people who had taken shelter under umbrellas were now re-emerging, shaking out damp towels and preparing to bake themselves again.
'Idiots,' Tate said.
He toured the gardens, noting all possible exits and entrances, blind spots, hiding places. He checked the covered parking area, spotted the rental car and made a mental note to collect the keys from the desk. The sun had been shining again for almost an hour and the tennis courts had dried out. Tate could hear the thump of the balls and he wandered in that direction. Nothing he'd been told suggested that Ava was the sporting type and he was expecting to have more luck indoors and at night. The courts were all occupied, mostly by Japanese energetically hitting two-handed backhands from the baseline. Only motor sports appealed to Tate—cars, bikes and speedboats. He ate his apple on schedule while he watched the players without interest.
As he left the tennis complex, Tate briefly considered selecting a staff member to question about Ava. He rejected the idea as too dangerous—the resort was for the privileged who valued their privacy. His inquiry might be referred to the management, with unfortunate consequences. He sauntered in the direction of the most shade and came upon the practice driving range for the golfers. Golf interested Tate no more than tennis, but the set-up was unusual. The players hit balls at large round target buoys floating in a sizeable lake. The buoys were spaced at fifty, one hundred and 150 metres from the tee. A ball hitting a buoy made a loud ring, a miss was signalled by a spurt of water. A mechanism under the surface of the lake collected the balls and regurgitated them.
He was about to walk on when he noticed a party of three take up position at one of the tees. Two men and a woman, and there was something about the woman . . . He moved closer. The taller of the men drove three times, hitting the fifty-metre target and twice narrowly missing the one at a hundred metres. The shorter man hit the closest buoy and the next one. His third drive landed within centimetres of the furthest buoy. Money changed hands. The woman stepped on a cigarette and selected a club. The tall man teed the ball and she swung vigorously. Her first swing missed completely, on the second try she topped the ball which dribbled a short distance in front of her.
'Shit!' Her voice carried to Tate, who edged along in the shadows towards the threesome.
On the third attempt the woman sent the ball sailing out over the water to land between the second and third buoys. The tall man removed the woman's hat and kissed her. Tate was in no doubt—the woman was Ava Belfante.
From previous experience, Vance Belfante knew it was necessary to stay focused on his immediate problems—surviving the mind-numbing prison routines, staying out of trouble with the heavies and the queers, maintaining good relations with George Frost. He coped pretty well, presenting a tough front to the system and its threats. He continued to deny to Frost that he had any idea of what had turned Ava against them, but, privately, he knew that it must concern Shelley. There was just no other explanation. Frost was impatient for news of the steps that had been taken to deal with Ava, but Vance had nothing to tell him.
At night, in the cell he shared with two other men, Vance thought about Shelley. So different from Ava, different from any other woman he'd ever known, Shelley had worked in a florist's in Oxford Street. Vance had gone in there to buy flowers as a make-up present for Ava after an argument. He wished he could recall what the argument had been about because he wanted to be able to remember every detail of his meeting with Shelley. But he couldn't. There had been so many arguments back then. It was a hot day, he remembered that, and he'd had on his white sharkskin suit. Shelley had worn her pink smock.
Shelley Lamb was tall and slim with a heart-shaped face and a pile of curling blonde hair. Later, Vance decided that it was her hands that had attracted him first. Shelley's hands were pale, with long slender fingers and carefully tended nails, painted pink. Not like Ava's meaty paws with their scarlet nails, often chipped. She wore no rings, Vance noted that straight off. She looked to be about twenty and she wore a tiny gold cross on a chain around her long neck.
Vance started lying to her immediately. He told her the flowers were for his mother. Shelley smiled, showing small, white teeth. She caught her tongue between them as she made out the docket. Vance felt himself get hard as the pink tongue was clamped by the white teeth. He looked down the front of her smock and caught a glimpse of a white cotton bra. After twenty-five years almost exclusive experience of black and red, silk and lace, peek-a-boo lingerie, Vance found the sight powerfully erotic. He had togged up to take Ava out to lunch—suit, silk shirt, haircut—he knew he looked presentable. He asked Shelley to have dinner with him and she agreed.
It started then, a slow and elaborate courtship that involved a great deal of ingenuity and deception on Vance's part—the flat in Dover Heights, the phoney business cards describing him as an 'Importer', the seriously ill mother requiring much of his time, the frequent interstate trips. Shelley's sweetness allowed her to accept it all. She shared a house in Paddington with two supermarket checkout girls who did no housework and were slow in coming up with their share of the rent. Vance went to one of the girls and persuaded her to make life in the house intolerable by being abusive, slovenly and constantly broke.
'I'll make it well worth your while,' he said. 'I love Shelley. I've got to make her come and live with me.'
After a month of this campaign, which cost Vance six hundred bucks, Shelley moved into the Dover Heights flat. She kept her job which she loved on account of
the flowers and, as she said, 'I like meeting such a lot of interesting people, like you, darling.'
'You never met anyone like me before,' Vance said.
Shelley agreed and they made love for the second time in an hour. Vance was enraptured by her slimness, her smoothness, her paleness, and, at first, her inexperience. He had never felt so manly. Business wasn't good and Ava appeared to understand that it occupied increasing amounts of his time. Ava had her own interests, it seemed to Vance, mainly shopping, gossiping, smoking, drinking and recovering from hangovers. Vance gave up smoking because Shelley didn't like the smell. She didn't drink so he drank less. He began to watch his weight.
'Maybe you should jog,' Shelley suggested.
'I get enough exercise with you. Come here and let me smack your bottom.'
'Vance!'
'You like it. You know you do.'
'I do not!'
But she did. He was teaching her other things, too. She still went to mass, but not as often. It pleased her vaguely that Vance was a Catholic, however lapsed. She had been a virgin when she met Vance but she now had a good deal to confess. Too much, really. She was an only child of separated Catholic parents. Her family ties were minimal and she showed no interest in meeting Vance's chronically ailing mother. She watched television and read Mills & Boon novels. Her job, Vance and their games were enough for her. Then she got pregnant and everything changed.
7
Bushmill insisted that the cost of the golf go on his bill. Dunlop protested for form's sake but was secretly relieved. This expedition was going to cost enough as it was, and possibly cause awkward questions from the accounts people. He hung back discreetly, finding something to talk to the doorman about, and allowed Ava and Bushmill to precede him. They went in the direction of the Malibu wing.
'Silver bullets,' Dunlop said aloud.
