Cheaters

by JR Carroll

  Danny Gold. Even saying his name to herself made Mischa tremble. She had known he had fallen for her straightaway after their first contact when, purely on a whim, she had kissed him that night outside the casino. It was written all over his delicately featured face, even though he’d tried hard to act casual. But you can’t disguise it when you have strong feelings about someone, not really. Now she had gone down the same road, when all she had originally wanted from him was some fun, a change of scenery and a decent fuck. She was certainly getting those and plenty else besides. She was in love all right; every part of her was in love with every part of Danny Gold. Her heart was in the driving seat now, not her head. She wanted him forever. She wanted him right now, sore and stinging as she was. She hoped too that this development wasn’t going to throw a spanner in the works. She would have to see that it didn’t, that she kept it as separate as possible from the main game …

  She had also been thinking how nice it would be to go away with him for a couple of days, down the coast, say, to Lorne. On the bike down the Great Ocean Road with the wind in their faces. That would be such a blast. They could stay at a hotel there. They could have a lot of fun, just being somewhere different together. They could even go swimming or surfing if this prolonged burst of spring weather held up. In no time the idea had already become a reality in her vivid imagination. She would put it to him at The Stokehouse.

  Still naked, she checked out her wardrobe, selecting some black Dachet jeans and an indigo V-necked Country Road top in superfine silk. No bra under it to spoil the sexy feel. She went through her lingerie drawer, searching for some lace panties, and in the process uncovering the nifty little .32 calibre automatic pistol she kept there. She took out the piece, which was loaded, balanced it in her hand, checked it over and put it back, concealing it with knickers. It was comforting to handle, but she hoped she’d never have to put it to use. With Danny now sharing her room, she’d have to be careful he didn’t stumble across that particular item. There was also the matter of her uniform hanging in the wardrobe. She slipped on the lightweight tencel jeans, cinched the silver-studded belt, then sat on the bed to put on some heavy black socks and her riding boots. Then the leather jacket. In no time she was all set. She shook out her hair in front of the wall mirror, shaping it with her hands until she was satisfied, then impulsively smiled at her reflection, as if they were sharing a little secret. Twenty-two, she had told Danny. Well, she could certainly pass for that. It was just one of the many small fictions in her life that made her the person she was. She retrieved the sealed manila envelope from under the bed, stuffed it into the Gearsack, picked up her helmet, gloves and keys from the sideboard next to the doorway and went out, wheeling the Virago onto the kerb before starting it up and haring off down the road …

  Inside the Carlton apartment she threw her helmet on the couch, removed her gloves and unzipped the jacket.

  ‘I’m hot,’ she said, exhaling. ‘What’ve you got to drink?’

  ‘Cold water in the fridge,’ the man said. ‘That’s about it, I’m afraid. I could get some beer or something across the road.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Water’s fine.’

  She opened the fridge, took out the plastic jug and poured herself a glass. While drinking it, she gazed at the imposing form of Mike Buckland, standing in front of her with his hands on his hips, chambray shirt unbuttoned halfway down his torso, as if he was trying to impress her. Smug grin on his too-handsome dial as usual. If only he knew. For a start he was hairy, like an ape; hair everywhere you looked, even sprouting from the sides of his thick neck. Second, that cologne he wore sliced through you like a razor. Third …

  She opened the Gearsack, put the manila envelope on the table and Mike’s eyes came to rest on it for a moment or two.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘No problems. It’s a breeze.’ Too easy.

  Mike tore open the envelope and spilled the contents: photocopies of documents, letters, clippings, pages from a diary, downloaded e-mail material, computer printouts, what have you. He riffled through, selected a sheet, ran his eyes over it and said, ‘Peruvian artefacts. Interesting. Is he really in the gallery business, Michelle?’

  Michelle said, ‘That’s the question. If so, it’s probably a cover or a tax dodge. Who knows. He talks the talk, but he’s so full of bullshit anyway it’s hard to tell what’s real with him and what’s not. But he does have lots of good stuff in his place.’ She finished the drink and said, ‘How much longer, d’you think?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ Mike said distractedly, leaning over the paperwork with both hands on the table. Michelle noticed he had raised and swollen veins from the heat on his hands and forearms. The copper bracelet he always wore had left a black ring on the sweaty wrist. She also saw, not for the first time, that his dark crop of curly hair was seriously thinning out at the crown.

  ‘You must have a mountain of shit by now,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not up to me, Michelle. As you know. And it takes a lot of processing. But I’m sure we must be getting close. This Peruvian deal might just be the key, the clincher. According to this the shipment’s due in a couple of weeks. We really need to keep tabs at arm’s length, see where it all ends up. That’s the bottom line, isn’t it. The name of the game.’ He was actually speaking to himself, a habit he had when he was thinking, at the same time rubbing and squeezing his chin, scraping hard bristle. Mike Buckland – or Buckers, as he was generally known, was a man’s man, with an overbearing physical presence and the plummy voice of a current affairs presenter, who liked to think he was every woman’s dream. Maybe he was to a certain kind of woman, but Michelle found his physique and features coarse and unattractive, a turn-off, and his vanity utterly baseless. He also had the unnerving habit of standing too close when he was speaking to you, of invading your personal space with his oversized physique. He was the exact opposite to Danny. And he was old, past it: middle or late thirties, perhaps even early forties.

  ‘Couple of weeks,’ she said. ‘That’s not long.’

  ‘So you could be off the hook real soon. Depends. We go with the flow.’ He moved his hips suggestively, smiling at her: more sleazy, pointless innuendo.

  ‘Mike,’ she said, ‘ever heard of a guy called Lewis Kenny?’

  ‘Lewis Kenny? Lewis Kenny. No, don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m wondering if he might be on file somewhere.’

  ‘I can find out. Why?’

  ‘He’s shown up a bit lately.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Average height and build. Forty, thereabouts. Well-dressed. Bald down the middle’ – raising an eye at Mike’s own apparently luxurious rug – ‘and dark along the sides and at the back. Arm in a sling.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. How’s he shown up?’

  ‘You know that young female, Donna Pritchard, the one who disappeared from the casino a few days ago?’

  ‘Yeah. I read about it. A pro or something, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Maybe. Anyway, the night before she went missing my friend and I saw her being hassled by this Lewis Kenny guy and some musclemen in the casino. She was scared out of her wits. I didn’t really notice her much myself, but my friend says it looked like she was a junkie being pressured for money, which she obviously didn’t have. She was shaking like a leaf. These guys were definitely putting her through the wringer. Then she vanishes next morning. And, at about that time, when she went missing, I was in a cafe in Chapel Street with the same friend, and this Lewis Kenny walked past. And Mike, Donna Pritchard lives in a flat in Prahran. I checked: it’s not far from the cafe we were in.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Right.’ But did he really?

  Mike crossed his arms, shifted his weight and sucked his teeth – another of his irritating habits. ‘I see your point. Still, it isn’t a lot. Pure coincidence. And if it came to a crunch there’s no way you could prove he was in Chapel Street, is there. Anyhow, Mi
chelle, thousands of people walk down Chapel Street. It’s not a crime.’

  ‘No. But he’s a creepy guy. I’m sure there’s a strong chance he’s done something to her. My friend is utterly convinced. The friend’s had a bit to do with him.’

  ‘With Kenny?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Who is this friend of yours?’

  ‘Just someone I know. Private business.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  So what did that have to do with it? She looked at Mike’s exposed chest. A vision of Danny making love to her, his face straining and glistening as he moved up and down, fucking her, flashed across her brain, making her inadvertently suck some air and flex her thighs. ‘Very male, if you really have to know.’

  ‘Lucky man,’ Mike said, rotating his shoulders through an arc and glancing at her breasts, which to his sharp eye seemed to rise and tremble under the leatherwear for a fleeting second. ‘What’s his involvement with Kenny?’

  Michelle shrugged. ‘None, really. Kenny just kind of … latched onto him in the casino.’

  ‘I see. Your friend’s a bit of a gambler.’

  Another shrug. ‘He’s bad news, Mike. Kenny, I mean. Cold bastard. He followed us out of the casino and yelled something smart.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I didn’t hear it clearly. Something about being careful and … sleeping well. This was after we saw him hassling the girl. He obviously realised we’d witnessed it and decided to send us a parting message.’ She added: ‘My friend is so sure of this he wants to go to the homicide squad.’

  Now Mike looked a little more convinced. ‘Homicide. Hm.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘Okay. I’ll check him out.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She knew he would, if only from a desire to please her enough to maybe even make it into her pants. He was entitled to dream.

  ‘Are you scared or something, Michelle?’

  ‘Not scared, but … slightly concerned. Unnerved.’

  ‘I think,’ Mike said, ‘that your friend has more to be concerned or unnerved about than you do, from what you’ve told me.’

  Michelle didn’t say anything. My feeling exactly.

  The Stokehouse was everything she had anticipated and more. They did not have a window table, but were close enough to one to see the last deep red of sunset fade into obscurity. For this upmarket occasion, Mischa had chosen a form-fitting midnight-blue dress reaching just above her knees, with a straw-coloured linen jacket thrown over her shoulders. Deep cleavage with the lacy edge of a camisole visible. Hair tied rather carelessly back as if it didn’t matter, or as if she hadn’t had a chance to fix herself up properly after a session of heavy petting. No stockings to take the natural gloss off her legs. Altogether a highly sexy look, with many male eyes turning sneakily in her direction. Danny was holding her hand, toying with her fingers and smiling at her with his lustful eyes as waiters came and went, replenishing their wine goblets and bringing large plates of perfectly arranged food that looked as if it had been styled for a gourmet magazine. This was a busy restaurant, mostly patronised by well-heeled types who, judging by appearances, were used to the best things in life. Mischa looked around the room: Danny was head and shoulders above any of the younger males. Not that there weren’t good-looking men present, but that was all they were: handsome, posturing clothes horses, to her senses devoid of basic animalism or the power to churn her stomach with desire the way Danny did just by looking at her or without even trying.

  Without going into specifics, Danny told her he was pleased with his day at the track, after which talk subsided into the lovers’ intimate whisperings to which they were now accustomed, heads tilted forward to catch every word, every wine-tinged breath, and to counter the rattle, laughter and general din of the restaurant, which had wooden floors and a high, vaulted ceiling. Mischa asked if he would like to go to Lorne for a couple of days, have some fun.

  Danny jumped at it. ‘Whenever you like. Why not tomorrow?’ he said.

  ‘Why not,’ she said, and he squeezed her fingers, sending tingles right up into her armpits.

  After dinner they adjourned for a nightcap in the pleasant, crowded bar downstairs. They touched glasses, and Danny said, ‘Here’s to Lorne.’

  Mischa said, ‘Here’s to more than Lorne. But it’s a start.’

  They drank, gazing at each other, and he said, ‘Mischa.’

  ‘What,’ she said, coming closer and leaning over so he could see everything inside the camisole, even her nipples.

  ‘I need to fuck you very much. I’ve got a hard-on right now thinking about it.’

  They put their glasses down, went outside and did it in the Golf, in the small car park, just removing the bare minimum of clothing. Lying on the back seat, Mischa sighed and stared dreamily at the people getting into their cars while Danny gave her exquisite head for a good fifteen minutes, locating her clitoris with the point of his tongue and sending her off on a rollercoaster ride of the most marvellous orgasms. Then finally he planted himself inside her and blew what was left of her clean away. What a mess – The Stokehouse had really fired up Danny’s engine room. An hour or so afterwards they went home wet and randy, Mischa’s knickers still on the floor, her hand on his stiff dick all the way, and as soon as they got inside, they threw off their clothes and trashed each other like savages until they were satisfied and spent enough to sleep in fits.

  14

  In preparation for the motorbike trip to Lorne, Danny purchased a state-of-the-art stackhat and a leather jacket, settling eventually for a close-fitting style similar to those worn by traffic cops, but black instead of blue. It looked the goods on him. After that he went into a sex shop, just on impulse as he passed it. He’d never been inside one before. It was an eye-opener, but he could not imagine what use he could possibly have for most of the items on display. He did, however, buy two boxes of exotic condoms. One was called Horny Devils: these were red, seriously ribbed, with extra lubrication and had a pair of horns protruding from the end. The others, called Gila Monsters, were the same except that they sported a reptilian tongue instead of devil’s horns. They would have plenty of fun with those in Lorne.

  Sitting on the back of the Virago with his hands around Mischa’s waist while she sped along the Great Ocean Road, Danny knew that he had pure happiness in the palm of his hand. It was yet another pearl of a day in this springtime made in heaven. They seemed to be going fast, cruising effortlessly past cars that were mainly being driven by greyhairs, peering intently ahead, their two hands high on the steering wheel. Totally undistracted by her surroundings, even by Danny’s proximity, Mischa punched the bike hard into left and right curves, slowing fractionally, dropping a gear and then accelerating out of them like a bullet from a gun. On a straight stretch, the section near Airey’s Inlet where Lorne is visible for the first time – looking from the distance like a Greek fishing village hugging the blue Mediterranean – he became conscious of a deep, rapidly intensifying rumbling approaching from behind. It sounded like the very earth splitting open, and then a swarm of fifteen or twenty bikers in formation roared past on their giant Harleys, fanning out over the entire road before careering around a sweeping bend and vanishing out of sight like flashes of quicksilver in the dazzling sunlight. Danny figured they had to be doing a hundred and sixty.

  As soon as they had checked into their room at Cumberland Lodge they threw off the hot clothes, had sex, showered, changed into summery things and then went sauntering down the main strip, arms wrapped around each other and heads touching. Gazing into a shop window at the fluoro surfie gear, Danny kissed her cheek, catching a whiff of her Paloma Picasso. She nuzzled up, so he slid his hand around inside her filmy top, brushing her navel and her soft stomach and making her skin flutter.

  ‘Baby, please don’t,’ she pleaded, but did nothing to stop his advances. How he loved the way her speech became thick and breathy when she was switched on. They proceeded along the street, stopping at this and that store
-front and taking frequent time out for a kiss or a squeeze. The window-gazing was really just an excuse, as they were both fully aware. Now they were stopped in the middle of the footpath, hands all over the swaying curves of their backs and behinds while lips and tongues made play. In her dizzy state, Mischa would not have been surprised in the least if Danny had put her up against a building right there in the street and had his way with her and she would have been unable to resist him, even if she had the will to – it was that kind of party in progress.

  After a late lunch of Asian takeaways and sports soft drinks, consumed on a bench, they bought a Norgen-Vaaz ice-cream each and made their way leisurely to the beach, removing shoes and socks and hitching up their pants before venturing into the shallows. It was cold. They continued on until the sand gave way to rocks, over which they clambered until they encountered a large flat one, a private sanctuary on which they could rest with their backs against the cliff while the afternoon sun slanted across them. Stupefied by the warmth, Danny found himself slipping in and out of a twitchy sleep, in which the crashing of waves over the rocks below was represented by wildcats roaring at the steel gates of a palatial residence in which he was trapped. When he came to Mischa was sleeping, so he waited patiently for her to stir before suggesting they push on right around the bluff. When they finally rounded it, they could see a fishermen’s jetty near the Grand Pacific Hotel, a rambling, two-storeyed Victorian structure on the outskirts of the town. The hotel became their objective, and by the time they reached it they were both ready for a gin and tonic or two on the front patio. This became four or five G & Ts, and then another couple to finish off. Drink, sun and fatigue quickly combined to make them light headed and scatty enough to laugh and giggle mindlessly at anything, anything at all: a fly buzzing in Danny’s face, a woman with a tray of drinks stumbling and almost spilling them, a little girl who came to their table and simply stared at them, as children do in hotels. By the time they dragged themselves out of there they were quite drunk and not feeling up to the long trek back to town, but there was nothing else for it. Half an hour later they were back at the Cumberland, where they barely had the strength to undress before flinging themselves into bed and two hours of deep, dense sleep into which no dreams or waking sounds intruded.