Cheaters

by JR Carroll

  ‘Darling …’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I was just thinking.’

  ‘What were you thinking, Danny. Tell me.’

  But he was always going to tell her. ‘I was thinking that … well, you know how Jan and Stephanie are moving out soon.’

  ‘Yes.’ He could tell from her voice that she was way ahead of him.

  ‘… Maybe I could take their place. If you’d like.’

  For an answer she hugged him again, even tighter than before.

  ‘What do you say?’ he said into her hair.

  ‘That would be just fabulous,’ she said.

  ‘We could sleep together every night.’

  She was nodding fast. ‘It’s so weird, isn’t it. We hardly even know each other.’

  ‘But it doesn’t feel that way, does it. It is weird. I’m so happy, Mischa.’

  They stood still in the room, holding onto each other. It did not seem possible to separate, even for a few short hours. Danny’s heart was throbbing madly: she was his. His.

  ‘I’ll see you tonight,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a nice long talk. About everything.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’ll phone you when I’m on my way.’

  She was smiling and nodding. He kissed her once more, placed a finger between her lips, then went away to make some bucks – big bucks, this time. In transit to Airport West, he called her on his mobile, just touching base.

  He could not see Victor anywhere in the main body of the casino, so he went upstairs and was let inside the heavy doors of the Platinum Room by a suited, smiling custodian who wished him good afternoon. The room that was set aside for major players was much more crowded than he’d expected. He did a lap or two, examining the set-up, watching croupiers and punters alike and keeping his money in his pocket. There was definitely a higher class of gambler here: bottles of French champagne were kept in silver ice buckets, cigars were smoked, expensive suits – even dinner suits – were worn. There were few women, he noted. He was about to have a drink at the bar to think about his Mischa for a few minutes when a cultured voice captured his attention.

  ‘You’re a day and a half late, old chap,’ Victor said behind him.

  Danny spun around. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, Victor. I had … some personal business.’

  ‘Pleasant personal business, I trust,’ Victor said, smiling with his splintery blue eyes. ‘No matter. So … you’ve never been in here before, have you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, it’s pretty much the same as down in the bear pit, except not as smelly. And of course the stakes are a lot higher.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Sigmund suggests you stick to your system, but up the ante. Considerably.’

  Danny felt nervous then. ‘If that’s what he wants, sure.’

  Victor slipped him a bankroll. ‘There’s fifty thousand.’

  ‘Shit,’ Danny said.

  ‘You’ll be all right. Take it easy, Danny. It’s just money. Here, let me introduce you to some people.’

  He led Danny by the elbow to a blackjack table at which four men played. ‘Danny, I’d like you to meet Geoff Egan,’ he said, touching the nearest player on the shoulder. The famous jockey glanced up with a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘Geoff – meet Danny Gold.’

  They shook hands. ‘Danny Gold,’ Geoff said, swinging around in his seat. He had yellow streaks threaded through his spiky hair, and freckles all over his long, skinny mug.

  ‘Christ, I think I rode a horse with that name years ago. It was a real fuckin’ pig, too. Bastard threw me off once up the bush somewhere – Warrnambool, I think. Banged me head on the fuckin’ running rail and I’ve never been the same since. Some people reckon that’s an improvement, mind you.’ He laughed. ‘Nothin’ personal, Danny. How are ya anyway, mate? Makin’ a quid or what?’

  Danny knew of Geoff Egan’s tough, wisecracking style from seeing him on TV, and it was heartening to know he wasn’t any different in the flesh: the tube didn’t always lie.

  ‘I’m making the odd one,’ he said. ‘What about you, Geoff?’

  ‘No, mate. I’m fucked today. Fucked as in fucked. Still, you gotta hang in there, doncha? Everything can change, just like that. I could get the split any minute.’

  He snapped his wiry fingers and his wizened jockey’s face did split into a huge, friendly grin, revealing amazingly white teeth, in several of which gold nuggets gleamed. He also had big ears that moved a lot when he grinned – like a party trick.

  Danny liked Geoff Egan straightaway. You had to like him. He was that kind of compelling personality: straight, raw verging on uncouth, full eye contact, funny, no shit except for the genuine street or stable variety and a brash, fluent style of palaver that made him an attraction on talk shows and sportsmen’s nights, but which did not necessarily endear him to racetrack officialdom.

  The second player Victor introduced him to was a recently retired football legend, Bobby McArdle. McArdle was known during his career as ‘The Wizard’, partly on account of his black flying mane, which resembled a cape when he was in full flight, but mainly because he was a will o’ the wisp goal-sneak with freakish anticipation and the uncanny ability to keep the ball on a string while he ducked, weaved, feinted, then spun out of trouble and snapped truly with either foot from impossible angles. He could kick between players’ legs, or even underground if necessary. Nowadays he sported a gleaming chromedome and large gold earrings, making him look like Andre Agassi, and used his unique talents to kick goals with the menagerie of dolly birds who flocked around him wherever he went.

  McArdle was bred in the purple, educated, skilled with language – and a fashion plate. Today he was wearing his silk tuxedo with the trademark tartan bow-tie and matching waistcoat. He had been known to wear a kilt, dance highland flings, sing in his own version of Gaelic and perform crude routines with a haggis at parties. Never short of a risque quip or a joke at his own expense, his playboy reputation and salacious personal life made him a darling of the press.

  He looked up at Danny, leaned back in a characteristic way he had and said, ‘Danny. Wait a minute. I’ve got a kid somewhere out there called Danny. You’re not him, are you? Did your mum send you? You haven’t come to put the bite on the old man? No, you’d be a bit old for him, I guess. I’d need to have been about ten at the time.’

  Geoff Egan laughed his head off. He had only recently recovered from breaking his shoulder in a nasty race fall, but you would never think so, the way he threw himself around.

  ‘Don’t laugh,’ Bobby McArdle said. ‘It’s perfectly possible. I once had an in-depth liaison with a young woman of Danny’s ethnic persuasion. If you don’t mind me making that acute observation, Danny.’

  ‘In-depth liaison,’ Geoff said, studying his cards and carelessly tossing a few hundred-dollar chips out. ‘You mean you hung around long enough to get your fly open.’

  ‘Something like that. But you know, not a day’s gone by when I haven’t … hang on a mo, what’s happening here?’ He had checked his cards to find he was holding two aces. ‘This is going to require some in-depth attention of the cerebral kind. To split or not to split, that is the question. Excuse me a minute, won’t you, Danny.’

  Danny moved on, gently shepherded by Victor towards a roulette table. There he met Glenn Wickham, a widely syndicated sports broadcaster and a tipster of note. He was a fresh-faced, youngish man with a small mouth, a pointy nose and gel in his hair, who came from Tasmania, which made him the butt of many gene-pool jokes in the media business.

  Wickham also had a serious gambling problem, mainly from punting heavily on horses. More than once his employers had bailed him out of trouble, but he always seemed to come up again, looking like a million newly minted bucks. Now he had a telephone tipping service specialising in long-shots, or what he advertised as ‘blue smokies’. He was one of those people whose name was always being linked indirectly to dishonest dealings in the racing i
ndustry, but no-one had actually been able to pin anything on him to date. With his eyes roving around a lot, he said a passing word or two to Danny before quickly deciding he couldn’t use him in any way, then Danny found himself shaking the big, sandpapery hand of Brand Filjar, petrol head, thrillseeker and larger than life party animal.

  Since migrating to Australia from Sweden in the sixties, Filjar had made a name for himself as a booze-artist, daredevil and skirt chaser. Invariably he was zapped by magazines such as Mode and Cosmo at cocktail parties, gallery exhibitions and exclusive blue-blood raves, often with two or three scantily attired, busty chicks young enough to be his daughters attached. His most recent coup was being pictured in marie claire with Naomi Campbell and Gerard Depardieu at a fashion showcasing – a shot he had blown up and framed on the wall of his den at home. During the late eighties and early nineties he had had his own outdoor adventure program on TV, which obliged him to perform all kinds of crazy, dangerous stunts. Now he had gone relatively quiet, but still seemed to have plenty of money to maintain his lavish lifestyle. And despite the advancing years – he had to be in his mid-sixties – Brand still looked the part with his ice-blue eyes, his jutting Nordic jaw and the unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. He could have been one of those superannuated action men in The Guns of Naverone or The Wild Geese. Whether he liked it or not, his career path had been mapped out for him the day he was born. He was named after Brand’s Hatch, the English racing circuit, by a father who was also a rabid car nut.

  From the corner of his eye, while talking to Brand, Danny caught a profile of Andy Fyffe, a young football star who had only recently burst upon the scene. Fyffe, who was wearing a snappy lounge suit and looked as if he was fresh from the unisex hairdresser, had the drop-dead looks and the laid-back, super-cool manner that made girls go weak and advertising men reach for their chequebooks. At about Danny’s own age, he was already raking it in from sponsorships and appearances, and had an assured future whether he played any more football or not. There were others: an array of sportsmen, a TV quiz show host, a stand-up comedian, glamorous models showing off cleavage, media personalities – all striving to attract the spotlight. Towering over them all, however, was beanpole basketball sensation Brent Le Havre, who had recently been signed by a major US club for a huge sum. Le Havre, who was barely old enough to be allowed in the casino, looked like an oversized surfie – which is what he had been before taking up basketball just two years ago. Meeting these people, smiling, pumping flesh and saying the right things, Danny experienced the occasional moment, which was almost orgasmic, in which thoughts of Mischa drifted into his brain, blotting out everyone and everything else. For all their wealth and fame, Danny felt sorry for them – because they didn’t have her. They didn’t even know her. He would much rather be himself right now in his humble obscurity than the whole bunch of them put together.

  ‘There aren’t usually this number of celebrities present,’ Victor was saying. ‘Not at the same time. But there’s some sort of special promo on this afternoon. What a rogues’ gallery. You could put most of these in a police line-up.’ A black-shirted, black-suited paparazzo was drifting around looking for candid shots while his subjects did their best to appear not to notice him. ‘You’re going to be photographed with all the glitterati, Danny,’ he smiled – and there was irony in the smile, as if he realised Danny was not dazzled by bright lights and big names. Danny wondered how Victor came to know all these people, but then, as Mischa had said to him, a man like Victor made it his business to be part of the in-crowd – it was his job.

  Glancing around, Danny saw a stunningly put-together red-headed woman, thirtysomething, who was sitting near the bar drinking a cup of coffee and casting her eyes around the room.

  ‘That’s Brand’s daughter, Patti,’ Victor said confidentially. ‘She might be a bit old for you, Danny, depending on your taste, but I understand she’s available. On the market, as they say.’ Eyeing her off himself, he added: ‘First-rate body, of course, but no great brain there.’

  Danny thought it odd that a man would bring his daughter to the casino, and said so. Victor drew his shoulders together, pursed his lips and said, ‘I think he’s anxious to set her up with Mr Right, or Mr Somebody, anyway, before it’s too late. The poor girl’s got problems, I gather.’ And he tapped the side of his head.

  Danny watched the players for a little longer, then the cash started burning holes in his pocket. Selecting a roulette table he stood back from the players, studying trends and waiting. After half an hour he bought ten thousand dollars’ worth of chips and hung fire for a few more spins. No real clusters, but red had come up six times in a row. Waiting until the ball was on its way, he placed five thousand on the black, attracting a few interested looks as he did so.

  Red again.

  Shit.

  Now he had to double his bet. Logic told him it was just as likely to be red as black next time around, but still, the black was due.

  The wheel was in spin. Danny hung back, then put ten thousand on the black and held his breath. More eyes were on him now, and some punters followed his lead. Danny stayed cool, evincing no expression whatsoever.

  Red.

  Groans all round. Danny pushed his tongue into his cheek, but otherwise betrayed no emotion. A seat became vacant and he moved into it. He was now in the position where he had to bet twenty thousand to stay in the game. It was becoming hairy – close to the point where he could be throwing good money after bad. But the fucking black was due. He put twenty thousand on the black. His hands were steady, but sweat was trickling down his sides. He watched the ball rattle its way around the wheel, swallowing, remaining calm.

  Black.

  He closed his eyes briefly and gave thanks. Chips were pushed his way; he let them all ride.

  Black.

  That produced some cheers and a ripple of applause. Danny did his sums: ninety-five thousand. Would black salute three times running? He appropriated the bulk of his chips, wagering twenty thousand – on red. He had quite an audience now.

  Red.

  Sighs of admiration, and relief on the part of those who had followed his lead.

  A hundred and fifteen thousand. Shit. That was enough. He gathered up his winnings, pushing the chips into the various pockets of his jacket and pants, stood to leave, turned – and accidentally brushed the large breast of Patti Filjar with his right hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I beg your pardon.’ He had no idea she was standing so near.

  ‘For what?’ Patti said, teasing him. ‘I didn’t notice anything much.’

  He negotiated his way past her, smiling circumspectly with a tight mouth, then went to the cashier’s window. Standing there waiting his turn he decided to skim whatever chips he was holding in his right pants pocket. He would leave them for now and cash them later, separately. There were plenty of ways around this cheque business.

  Putting the present cheque in his wallet, he noticed Patti drifting around with her arms folded under her breasts. Bobby McArdle, also on the prowl, said something amusing to her, flinging his jacket open, striking a pose with a hand on his hip and practically fucking her with his body language. She was smiling, but McArdle was turned sideways to Danny, who was sure Patti was smiling past the footballer – straight at him.

  ‘So how do we stand?’ Victor asked. They were drinking coffee while paparazzi buzzed around the room, snapping anyone who looked vaguely famous. Danny was watching Brand Filjar, Andy Fyffe and a TV actress whose name escaped him being positioned over a roulette table, all three beaming at the camera like winners.

  ‘Ninety-five grand,’ Danny said.

  ‘Not bad for a quick hit,’ Victor said. ‘Having another crack?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Then we can adjourn to Sigmund’s for a celebratory drink of that awful Italian stuff he’s into at the moment – and to divide the spoils.’

  ‘Suits me. Victor, I was just wondering. Why doesn’t Sigmun
d come here himself?’

  Victor took a sip of his cafe latte, and said, ‘Sigmund is too … preoccupied. He doesn’t have the time. As a matter of fact, he hardly ever leaves his apartment.’

  Danny’s puzzled expression prompted Victor to elaborate.

  ‘Sigmund is what you might call an obsessive person. He works all day, rarely taking a break, has his evening meal delivered, continues working until some ridiculous hour, then crashes for three or four hours. He gets up at five every morning and that’s when he sees the outside world. He’s a jogger; runs around the city when it’s still dark or dawn and there’s no-one else about, picks up the newspapers, goes home and stays put. The pattern is repeated each day almost without fail. Sigmund’s only experience of daylight is via the window.’

  ‘But what does he do?’

  ‘A few things. He has interests in art galleries, for instance. He produces magazines and films of the adult variety. This and that. There are always new projects on the burner with Sigmund. And he’s writing his memoirs – or so he says.’

  ‘His memoirs. Is he famous? Should I have heard of him?’

  ‘Not famous, I shouldn’t think. Someone of your tender years would probably not have heard of him. But he’s not without a measure of … shall we say, notoriety, in certain circles. He’s got an interesting story to tell.’

  ‘Why, what’s he done?’

  Victor finished his coffee and leaned over, smiling. ‘Done? You make him sound like a criminal, or a scam artist. Ask Mischa next time you see her. She talks to him. They seem to hit it off, those two.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘We go back many years, Sigmund and I. We’re both from Adelaide – went to the same school there. He was a couple of years my senior, I hasten to add.’ At that moment a photographer loomed and Victor and Danny smiled at the camera while the man got off five or six rapid shots on the motor drive. Then he requested their names for the caption.