by JR Carroll
Then Victor appeared again, calm and measured, his splintery eyes vibrant with suppressed excitement, and announced privately: ‘Someone’s shot himself in the toilet.’
Patti put a hand over her mouth, stifling a squeal.
‘Christ,’ Danny said.
‘I know him,’ Victor said. ‘I know the guy. He’s a surgeon, for God’s sake. A big gambler, sure, but – a surgeon. Top man in his field. He did skin grafts for burn victims. Remember that little girl, the one who …’
He trailed off. Victor seemed aghast, not that a man had killed himself, but that one of such standing, and who was dedicated to saving life, should choose to finish his own with a bullet – and in a casino toilet.
‘I’m going to be sick,’ Patti said. She had blanched.
‘It’s not the first time this has happened,’ Victor said, as Brand Filjar joined them with a Scotch and ice in his hand. He was big-boned, lantern-jawed, and held himself erect.
‘You’re right, it isn’t,’ he said to Victor. ‘The staff are trained to deal with toilet suicides, you know. I knew this chap, a successful businessman, came here every day. Every day. Couldn’t stay away from the place. First his wife and kids left him, then he had to sell the house, the car, the lot. Then he sold the business. It all came here, every cent. The guy had one final bet, his last thousand, and when it was gone he said, “Excuse me,” went to the toilet and blew his brains out. I was here when he did it, playing at the same table. The thing was, he was prepared. He brought the gun, knowing he’d use it.’ He swirled his drink, took a sip, and said, ‘I got to know him reasonably well. Lent him money on occasion. He always paid it back. Absolute gentleman.’
‘To the bitter end,’ Victor said grimly.
Silence. All eyes turned towards the toilet area, where a small army of dark-suited casino officials had assembled. Sneaking a look at Victor, Danny knew that, with his keen nose for such matters, he would make it his business to know all the grisly details by the end of the day: he was positively radiating.
‘I don’t get it,’ Patti said. ‘It’s pointless. People are so stupid.’
‘You have to understand, darling,’ Brand said to her, ‘that when someone can’t stay away from the place, they can’t stay away from the place. It’s that simple – and that terrible. There are all kinds of stories. All kinds. Weird stuff. You wouldn’t believe it.’ He turned to Danny and said, ‘I hope you’re not a mad gambler.’
‘Not that mad,’ Danny said.
‘Danny’s a maths whiz,’ Victor said. ‘He’s nearly finished an honours degree.’
‘Congratulations,’ Brand said. Patti looked at Danny with surprise, mixed with admiration – evidently she had not known this important detail about him. Danny was wondering what Patti did for a living – or was she just supported and spoiled by her father?
‘If you want a cheap car,’ Brand continued, ‘hang around in the casino car park. There’s a chap comes here’ – He swivelled his head around, searching the room – ‘not here now, but anyway, he was in the car park, and this Chinese guy offers to sell him his car, a spanking new BMW. Got it for a song, two or three grand. It was all he had on him. Amazing stuff. Goes on all the time.’ He had another sip of his Scotch, and added with a tight smile: ‘The casino is a great leveller, isn’t it.’
Danny didn’t think so. While it certainly had the capacity to destroy lives, to his mind it was a marvellous invention. He played roulette for another hour, winning and losing, winning and losing, before his interest flagged and he settled up with Victor. Always, however, there was the skim in another pocket. Victor invited him to Sigmund’s, ‘for cocktails, if one can dignify spumante with that name.’ Danny declined, but Victor had a way of inveigling him into situations – he was adept at that. Before he knew it they were out the front, getting into a taxi together. During the ride to Flinders Lane, Danny wondered about the surgeon, how a man of such intelligence could become so addicted to gambling that he would want to end his life. He could never see himself going that way, regarding it as a matter of life and death.
When Victor opened the door to the apartment block Danny got a big, unwelcome surprise: Lewis Kenny, on his way out. ‘Victor,’ he said, and as he passed Danny gave him a sidelong smirk and a sad head-shake. Then he went into smoke. No words, but they weren’t necessary: Danny’s blood had turned cold.
An Indian or Sri Lankan man with a perfectly contoured, well-oiled physique was standing in the glare of the spotlights when Victor unlocked the door and let Danny and himself in. Naked except for a turban, he was playing with himself, trying to get it up, but without much success. On her knees alongside this fine specimen was a girl, also mostly naked, with buttocks gleaming in the light and big, brunette hair piled high in disorderly curls. A lavish excess of mascara on the false lashes, eye shadow, rouge and lip gloss completed a suitably sluttish appearance. She was stroking the man’s thigh, gazing longingly at the near-flaccid member and slowly rotating her tongue around her lips while Sigmund, leaping all over the stage like a true artist, gave encouragement and zapped the pair at a frantic rate from every conceivable angle. Danny wondered how the Indian, even in the circumstances, could possibly not have an erection – but maybe this was the end of a tough day’s modelling. He didn’t seem too interested: with one hand working languidly on the slack penis and the other on his hip, the elbow turned to the front in a camp posture, he looked down on the woman as if she were a poor, pathetic creature, utterly beneath his contempt.
Ignoring the tableau entirely, Victor went directly to the fridge and helped himself to an already-opened bottle of the everpresent Riccadonna, making a face at Danny as he offered to pour into the chunky blue goblets.
‘You can have Irish whiskey if you prefer,’ he said apologetically. ‘There’s Jameson.’
‘No, this is fine,’ Danny said, but in truth he had no taste at all for the sweet stuff. One glass would not kill him, then with any luck he’d be on his way
By the time the models had retreated behind the partitions to change and Sigmund had divested himself of his equipment, Danny’s glass had been refreshed twice. He found that, at a certain point, with the sun shining on him through the salon windows, the sweet taste didn’t bother him at all – in fact it made him feel heady and contented.
‘Ah,’ Sigmund said, helping himself. ‘The hunters, home from the hill. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
After taking a sip Victor said, ‘Someone shot himself in the casino today. In the toilet.’
‘Really?’ Sigmund said, striking a shocked attitude. ‘How distasteful. Shot himself, you say?’
‘That’s right. I knew the man. We’ve played blackjack at the same table. I’ve lent him money. He was a surgeon, for God’s sake.’
Lent him money. Strange, Danny thought: that was what Brand Filjar had said. But then it helped to inject Victor further into the incident.
‘So they let people take guns into the casino, do they,’ Sigmund said.
‘I don’t see how they can stop them,’ Victor said.
‘Maybe they should have metal detectors at the doors, like at the airports.’
Victor shrugged. ‘It’s a casino, not a government installation. People can bring in whatever they like. In any case, death by shooting is the exception rather than the rule. It’s more usual for the punter in question to neck himself, using his tie or belt. Or to drown himself in the river. Or to put the idea on hold for half an hour and jump off the West Gate Bridge. That’s an increasingly popular venue, I’m told. And after all, they do have security cameras everywhere – except in the toilets.’
‘If people want to kill themselves, they’ll find a way. A surgeon? God, what a shocking waste. More drinkies?’
Victor gave him the day’s winnings – a cheque and some cash. Sigmund ignored the cash as he tossed it on a buffet, and hardly looked at the cheque before slipping it in his lightweight shirt pocket. Danny coul
d see there was a thickish bundle of banknotes in the pocket and averted his eyes quickly when Sigmund caught him noticing.
‘I like to be prepared, Danny,’ he said, withdrawing the bundle. ‘Ten thousand in American greenbacks. Never go anywhere without ’em.’
‘Or the gold sovereigns in your money belt,’ Victor said.
‘Guineas, Victor old thing, guineas. But that as well, yes. Call me old-fashioned, but there you are. One thing I learned from my enforced time at the Governor’s pleasure, Danny, is the importance of hard currency in dire situations. It can save your life – or it can hang you, depending.’ He took a mouthful before launching into a story. ‘I had some trouble early on from a big thug and his ape-like friends who thought I was easy pickings. They were hard-ons, in jail-house parlance, and I was this soft-dick target. They knew who I was, of course, and they assumed I’d be carrying a million smackeroonies in the back pocket of my prison-issue dungarees. But I wasn’t; I wasn’t carrying any cash at all. What I did have was a gold pen secreted in my person, in that private, unspeakable place. The thing was, my gold pen was also diamond-encrusted and worth a tidy sum. It was a present from a Saudi sheik. This was my insurance, this pen, but I wasn’t giving it to these cunts, no, sir. They were just low-life shit, Danny. Dogshit. I wouldn’t cut them down if I found them hanging. I wouldn’t piss on them.’ The word was sprayed through the sunlit air as a note of vehemence built itself into Sigmund’s speech. ‘Anyway,’ he said, sitting forward, warming to his memories, ‘there was this other bunch of cunts who were even meaner and filthier than the first crew. The two top dogs were constantly locking horns to see who was in charge of this … this pissing ground. Why they would give a fuck, I don’t know, but it seemed important to their self-esteem. There was no reason or intelligence involved: they were just animals applying the laws of the jungle, Danny. So I approached the leader of this second push, a guy by the name of Gregorio – IQ about sixty on a good day, spent all his time lifting weights and punching bags – and I said, “Gregorio, I am told you are the toughest man in the jail,” and he grunted, or something. Perhaps he creamed his pants or pawed the ground. Stroke the egos of simple, savage brutes and they purr, you see: they are yours. I showed him the pen and said, “That cunt Geary” – his rival’s name was Lance Geary – “is making threatening noises in my direction. If you protect me from him, show him who is boss once and for all, the pen is yours. It is real gold and those are real diamonds you see twinkling.” Gregorio was turning the pen over in his hand, like a gorilla trying to work out what the fuck it was. What a circus. But he knew what gold and diamonds were.’
Sigmund finished his drink and poured himself another before topping up the other two goblets on the coffee table. ‘Of course, he could have taken the fucking pen and snapped me in half there and then,’ he went on, ‘but I knew he wouldn’t. Alliances are crucial in prison. Even someone as stupid as Gregorio could see it was in his interests to look after the golden goose. And after all, he hated Geary, so it was a good excuse to demonstrate his superior macho powers. And that was exactly how it worked out – Geary was found with his head cracked open, Gregorio was charged with his murder and I was off the hook. Word got around the system that I had powerful friends, that I wasn’t to be fucked with, or whoever fucked with me would finish up like Lance Geary.
‘You see, Danny, we Hungarians love the violin and the piano concerto, sure, but we have another side: we have lived. We know how to survive, we never forgive and we know how to deal with people who make trouble for us.’ Again he sprayed through his thick lips, and drove the point home by smashing the heel of his fist into his palm with a ringing eclat that made Danny jump.
‘Something you didn’t know, Danny. I come from Romany gypsies, way back. Romany gypsies. We understand too well what it is to be treated like shit. Go to Europe today and you find the gypsies not free, roaming about the countryside where they belong, but in shantytowns and slums and filth. They think they can stop us being gypsies, but they can’t. They can kill you, but they can’t stop you being a gypsy, just as they can’t stop you being a Hungarian with tanks and guns and fucking propaganda. We have been fucked over by those Russian cunts, but we’re still here, and where are they? History has dealt with them. They are fucked over by their own stupidity; their Five Year Plans, their Afghanistan, their Chernobyl. It is all they deserve, Danny. You look into the heart of a Russian, and what do you find? I’ll tell you: a fucking coward, and a brain-dead one. Even the great Russian writers write with bitterness, not love of Mother Russia, because they know. They were only strong because they were many, and now they are seen as the shit they have always been. And I’m talking about Tsar Nicholas II, Lenin, Trotsky, Stalin, Khrushchev, the clown they have now, embalmed in vodka – all the geniuses and strongmen, the whole fucking shower of duck shit.’ And he slammed the coffee table with the flat of his palm, spilling drink.
That seemed to be the end of it. Sigmund sat back and took a long drink with a slightly trembling hand, making himself calm down. Danny’s eyes were wide; his heart was thumping, as if Sigmund had lumped him in with the Russian swine. How had he got onto that, anyway? Danny couldn’t remember where he had gone off the rails exactly – one minute he was talking about prison and the next thing, bang, World War Three. Fuck. Victor, however, was totally unruffled, as if such violent outbursts were commonplace.
‘Danny, forgive me,’ Sigmund continued in a softer voice. Leaning across the coffee table he patted Danny’s knee. ‘I like you. You are clever. But you are not Australian, are you?’
‘I am Australian,’ Danny said.
‘Technically, perhaps. According to official records. But not here, or here.’ He pointed to his head, then his chest. ‘Where it counts. You are smart, smart enough to know a hawk from a handsaw, yes?’
‘I guess,’ Danny said.
‘Then be smart, Danny. Don’t be fucking stupid.’
By the time he left Cricklewood Close, over an hour later, Danny was feeling more than a little rattled – and quite drunk. Following his passionate display, Sigmund had become charming – even overly affectionate – towards Danny, plying him with Riccadonna, putting his arm around him and repeatedly telling him what a fine and gifted young man he was. He spoke lyrically – silkily – of the paintings of Caravaggio, Veronese and El Greco; of the music of J. S. Bach, Schubert, Debussy and Liszt; of the ideas of Nietzsche in Thus Spake Zarathustra, which he attacked; of his own deep and abiding love of the great cities of Europe, namely Budapest, Vienna, and Venice, in that order; of someone called Oskar Kokoschka.
What Danny was meant to make of all this was a mystery, but perhaps Sigmund was also affected by the spumante and felt in an indulgent mood towards his captive young audience. But he had certainly shown the two sides of himself and, as he lurched off towards his car, Danny felt in his bones that a clear warning of some kind had been communicated to him. The chance encounter with Kenny at the door, the prison story, the stuff about how smart Danny was – meaning how smart Sigmund was – it all combined to make him afraid that Sigmund was aware of his little skimming rort. He was, after all, a finance expert, a major league rorter himself, experienced in wheeling and dealing, in cheating: hard, probably impossible, to put one over a man like that. It would be a fatal mistake to underestimate him: he was smart – although not smart enough to avoid going to jail for five years – and he had guile, manipulative skills, seductiveness – all assets that couldn’t be bought or taught. And he was a fucking gypsy. Christ almighty, the man had so many cards up his sleeve. Danny didn’t know much about gypsies except that they were supposed to be cunning thieves and charlatans who lived in wagons and who were able to see things. They had paranormal powers; they told your future. Told your future. When he had his arm around your shoulder, speaking in those warm, caressive tones, you felt that you would do anything for Sigmund, even confess to ripping him off. He made you feel as if, no matter what you did, he would understand. Very sedu
ctive indeed, and dangerous: Danny was going to have to watch himself very closely from now on. He was thinking he should accelerate his program, get it over with and get the hell out of it. He had the impression Sigmund was the type of person who would only give one warning, if that was what it had been.
Danny had intended to visit his mother this afternoon – the main reason he didn’t want to go to Sigmund’s – but now he was too stung to drive that far. So he drove carefully to Prahran, visualising Mischa in the house waiting for him and becoming aroused as his thoughts advanced. He would go to Airport West the next day without fail. He was seeing less and less of his mother and felt guilty about it. But tomorrow they would have a cup of tea and a nice long chat. He might not be seeing her much, but she was still very much in his thoughts – and part of the picture.
At traffic lights he rang Mischa, but she was not there. Being drunk he again felt the need to tell her everything. It was understandable: he was impressing himself, and naturally wanted to impress his new love. But he would resist that insidious urge, and savour the moment of triumph when it happened. To do so before then would be like a premature ejaculation.
When he got home Mischa was out. He splashed his face with cold water, made an instant coffee and sat down to drink it and listen to some music – Mischa’s new silverchair CD. It didn’t appeal to him, so he put on an old Bon Jovi one instead. Bed of Roses induced in him a wave of feeling that was at once rapturous and deeply melancholic, so much so that he had to shake himself out of it. He was feeling a little more clear-headed by the time Mischa returned, clutching plastic shopping bags from boutique clothing stores. They joined in a long embrace in the passageway, he pushed her up against the wall, then they went to bed and made the perfect kind of love teenagers have dreams about. Soon after, Danny fell asleep for an hour, and when he woke up Mischa was not in bed. He got up and walked naked to the kitchen, rubbing his face. The sound of the shower going told him where she was, so he joined her. This had become one of their usual practices and it always ended up being much more than a wash. Eventually they went out for dinner, cruising down Chapel Street looking for a park – neither could be bothered walking – with Mischa’s hand resting on Danny’s leg as he drove, her face turned to him in the dark, her hushed words and Paloma Picasso scent engulfing him in the confines of the Golf’s cabin like a sweet drug, making him want to swoon.
