Dunlop did not contact Cassie. Before Lunch began its holiday break in the middle of the month, so he was unable to watch her sessions. He played the tape several times, then wiped it as an act of self-discipline. The jury was out and Dunlop waited. Media interest in the trial and its result was diverted by the leadership struggle in the Federal Government. The pretender won. The jury failed to reach a verdict and was instructed by the judge to try again. Spencer and Davies remained at liberty with their passports surrendered on bail of $250,000 pending the handing down of a verdict. Judge Hambly was reported to be ill.

  Dunlop bought a second-hand portable typewriter and prepared two messages. The first gave details of the safe house in Botany, the time of Loew's arrival there on the day of his release and the length of his stay. It did not specify the route to be followed between the prison and the house nor Loew's next destination. 'Two officers in attendance.' The second message read: 'Charlie—If Loew is knocked you get the negatives and all copies. If not the press and the TV get them.' The two sheets of bond paper were accompanied by a set of the photographs, including the blow-ups. He typed Spencer's name and the flat address on two labels and 'Highly Personal' on two more. He sealed the package and applied the labels back and front.

  Dunlop put the typewriter on the kitchen table and used a screwdriver and a pair of pliers to break it down into more than a hundred parts. He took a long walk through the streets and lanes of Marrickville, dropping the bits into garbage bins, stormwater drains and home renovators' skips. It was Friday. Loew was due for release in ten days, on the second-last day of the year. Dunlop drove to Darlinghurst at eleven p.m. when there would still be activity in the streets. The pub was open. People boarded a late bus. He knew from experience that the idea of operating in the dead of night with no-one around was for amateurs. There was always someone around, and to stuff something into a letter-box in the wee small hours was a very suspicious act. He walked briskly past the letter slots. The package slipped in easily.

  Two days later he telephoned Spencer's unlisted number. A thin, harsh male voice answered.

  Dunlop said, 'I want to talk to Charlie.'

  'Speaking.'

  'Get a package at the flat?'

  'Yeah.'

  Dunlop held up the tape recorder close to the receiver. He played fifteen seconds of carefully selected excerpts from Kimonides' account of the trans-shipment of Kerry Loew.

  'Get that?'

  There was no reply but the line was still open. He could hear Spencer's laboured breathing.

  'Genuine goods, genuine offer,' Dunlop said and hung up.

  Dunlop was using a public telephone, taking no chances. His fingers were slick with sweat and he dropped the phone card as he took it from the slot. He bent to pick it up and cracked his head on the telephone as he straightened in the confined cabinet.

  'Jesus Christ.' He rubbed at his head and walked down Addison Road with a slight ringing in his ears. He was almost a block from the phone booth when he realised he'd left the tape recorder behind. He sprinted, heart pounding and joints protesting. A car rounding the corner of Neville Street almost ran him down as he dashed across in front of it.

  'Idiot!' the driver shouted.

  Dunlop raced to the booth. The tape recorder was sitting where he'd left it on top of the coin box. 'Idiot is right,' Dunlop said. He shoved the recorder into his pocket and resumed his walk, having forgotten its purpose, and was surprised to find himself in Marrickville Road without any recollection of the route he'd taken. I've got to pull myself together, he thought. If I keep going like this I'll fuck everything up. He went into a newsagency to buy a paper and his eye fell on a stack of glossy books on the counter—Cassie May's Workout and Diet Book. He bought a copy and left the shop without paying for the paper which he'd tucked under his arm. Now I'm breaking the law, he thought when he realised what he'd done. Brilliant.

  He turned the pages of the book slowly, glancing at the pictures as he walked home. The photographer had done a great job. Cassie's poses were at once natural and intensely sexy. Her expressions were varied and appropriate to the exercises, not the bland identikit faces usual in books like this. He leaned against a wall in the shade and read at random:

  So you're thirty-seven and you want to look the way you did at seventeen? You're nuts. Do you really want to look like that? Do you want the pimples and the blackheads? Not to mention the feelings!

  Forget it. You're thirty-seven, you act it, so look it. That means you're a couple of kilos heavier, kids or no kids. You're brighter, too, you know a hell of a lot more. Pull the flab into shape. You'll be fine.

  Merv Lincoln. Remember Merv? He used to finish second to Herb Elliott in the mile and the 1500 metres. When he was about forty he said his sub-four-minute mile days were over. He said he tried to run a mile in four minutes plus a second for each year of his age. How old are you now, Merv? Fifty-eight, my researchers tell me. Well, the five minutes is just around the corner.

  The point is, anyone who tries to do, look, think or feel the way they did ten, twenty or thirty years before is crazy. Be like Merv and cut yourself some slack.

  Sensible exercise, sensible diet, stay away from doctors and lawyers, sure. Moderation? Sure. But there's one big negative. If this was a pop-up book I'd have a fist come out and flatten your nose. Why? Because you smoke. You dope!

  Meyer Lansky—you know, the gangster—quit a five pack a day habit cold turkey. That's willpower. It can be done.

  But here's the rub. Meyer died of lung cancer seven years after he quit. The Parliament filters got him in the end after he'd beaten quite a few other diseases.

  You can't look, taste, smell or feel good if you're poisoning yourself. And take note, sisters and brothers—every puff is a wrinkle! Remember what was said about the poet Auden, a lifelong puffer, 'They had to unfold his face to find out who he was.' This could be you.

  Dunlop remembered the books in Cassie's flat—the biographies of politicians, sports stars, writers and criminals. He had no doubt that she did some of her own research. The writing carried a flavour of the way she talked. Well, she had a word processor as well as an exercise bike, why not? He continued his walk with different emotions warring inside him. He was edgy, nervous about how it would work out. The feeling reminded him of his last days on the force, when he knew he was pressing his luck, getting up everyone's nose. He hadn't cared then. Katarina had gone and what difference did any of it make?

  Now, he did care. He studied the picture on the cover of the book—Cassie in her white leotard, giving her gap-toothed grin. She was right. You couldn't feel the way you had in the past. But what about completely different feelings, never before experienced? Could you trust them? He crossed the road and began to walk up Park Road. The big grassy schoolyard on the right side was quiet now that the holidays had begun. The street was sleepy in the late afternoon heat. Up ahead there was a light shape, moving. He got closer and saw that it was Cassie, wearing a white dress, standing outside his house and beckoning to him.

  18

  'What the hell are you doing here?'

  'I had to see you. I've been going mad. I just couldn't . . .'

  'Inside. Quick!'

  Dunlop unlocked the gate and hustled her through. A car cruised past but otherwise the street was still quiet. He fought to control the anger rising inside him. After all the precautions I've taken. All the bloody planning . . .

  He opened the door to the house and Cassie moved ahead of him. The white dress was short and tight and she wore sandals with medium heels. The sight of her legs and bottom sent a sexual jolt through him. She glided down the passage towards the back of the house. He caught the door before it slammed.

  'It's all right. I'm sorry I shouted. I was surprised. Cassie, what is it?'

  She reached the kitchen and collapsed into a chair. He bent over and embraced her, stroking her bare arms, raising her hands and kissing them. She trembled and sat passively. She had let her red leather drawstring bag drop to the floor. Dunlop put the book on the table.

  'Look. I bought it.'

  Cassie sniffed. She was pale and her dark eyes were huge in her strained face. 'Great. That's a dollar fifty in royalties you've given me. I couldn't find your number. If I had I wouldn't have had to come. Anyway, why haven't you phoned me? Damn you.'

  'Cassie . . .'

  She picked up the bag, took out an envelope and threw it on top of the book. 'There, Dunlop. You're running my life now. Go ahead, tell me what the fuck do I do about that!'

  Dunlop got a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and filled two glasses. He added ice and a couple of drops of scotch. He put one in front of Cassie, sat at the table and took a drink.

  'It's from Kerry, of course.'

  'Right.'

  'You want me to read it?'

  She nodded. The aggression seemed to be dropping away. Her body sagged and her shoulders slumped forward in a way he'd never seen before.

  'Have a drink.'

  'Merry Christmas,' she said flatly.

  She drank as he took the letter out and read it carefully. Ice tinkled in her glass. The house was quiet and still. Dunlop felt as if he could hardly breathe. He couldn't interpret her behaviour. Was she wavering? Did this pathetic note make a difference? No philosopher usually, he was acutely conscious of the different mental and emotional worlds inhabited by men and women. He read the letter again.

  'I can't answer it. I can't go through with this, Luke. I'm sorry.'

  Dunlop sipped his drink and said nothing.

  'It's all wrong. It's always been wrong. We were crazy. We can't just snuff him out. We can't murder a man.'

  I can, Dunlop thought. For you, I can murder a dozen.

  'Don't look at me like that. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

  'Cassie, we've talked about this. There's no other way.'

  She shook her head. 'There is, for me. I'm going to the States. I've had an offer for a long time and I was going to take it and then you came and everything happened . . .'

  'When?'

  'On New Year's Eve. It was the earliest I could manage. When does he . . .?'

  'January second—Thursday,' Dunlop lied, his mind sprinting. You can't go! I've fixed everything!

  'Thank God.' She drank and some of the colour came back into her face. She reached out and touched Dunlop's hand. 'It's better like this, darling. It couldn't have worked. You'd have thrown everything away. Your career and your future.'

  Her hand was cool on his hot skin. 'Maybe you're right,' he said.

  'I am. You'll see. He'll get over all this. He's strong in his own terrible way. He'll find another woman.'

  Like hell he will. 'I won't.'

  'You won't have to. I don't want you to. You can come to the States, can't you? Holidays and on business. Can't you, Luke?'

  'Sure.'

  'And . . . when it all sorts out, I can come back.'

  'To Coledale?'

  'To wherever you want. Luke . . . oh Jesus, I was so frightened about coming here. I have to go to the toilet.'

  Dunlop grinned and leaned across to kiss her cheek. 'You know where it is, love.'

  Cassie dashed from the room. Dunlop opened her bag, found the wallet and took out her American Express card. He stretched a tissue over it and made a tracing of her signature. When she came back he was sitting with his drink in his hand, smiling.

  'It's okay, then?' she said.

  'I think you're wonderful. Write something in the book.'

  She kissed him. He handed her a pen and she scrawled quickly on the title page. 'I've got to go. I've got a thousand things to do. Luke, I'm so relieved.'

  'Me, too. I'll drive you.'

  'No, I'll walk for a bit and get a cab.'

  'Okay.'

  They moved towards the front door. 'You know where the key is at Coledale. You can go down there whenever you like. I'll write to you there.'

  'Thank you. Address it to Dick, I'll know what you mean.'

  She laughed as she opened the door. 'I love you.'

  He kissed her, went down the path and opened the gate. 'Bye, Cassie. Take care.'

  He examined the traced signature and the one she'd written in the book. The two were very alike—bold and flowing. He practised in the margin of a newspaper until he had it right—big capital C, slightly open 'a', two s's sliding together and a dotted quick flick for the 'i' and the 'e'. He got a pad and began to copy. 'Cassie May Loew' and 'Darling, I'll be thinking of you, love, Cassie' gave him twenty-one of the letters in the alphabet. Not bad, he thought. Should be enough. Got all the necessary ones and she doesn't change much between upper and lower case. He flexed his fingers and transcribed the letters over and over, separately and in linked runs. After an hour, he got up and made himself a drink. 'Time for a dry run,' he said.

  Cassie had forgotten to take the letter, not surprisingly, because he'd hidden it under her book. He read it through several times, pacing around the room. He sat down and wrote, 'Dear Kerry . . .'

  Kerry Loew read the letter four times. It was too short; he wanted pages and pages, but it was okay. It was a great letter. Express delivery. He read it again. She was still afraid, but she'd keep their date. She believed him when he said he'd protect her and that made her feel good. Made him feel good, too. He read that bit over another time. The book was the clincher. He read the inscription for the twentieth time, lifted the book and kissed it. He wished he'd written more proper letters, not those copied-out pieces of crap. Being genuine, being sincere, that was the go. His letter had brought her around and everything was going to be okay. He lay back on his bed and lit a cigarette.

  Last pack, he thought. Got to quit tomorrow. Then there was just this last week to get through. If only he could work out. That'd take care of the tobacco craving and get him back into shape. He felt his waistline and was sickened by the softness of it. No exercise and too much sweet coffee. He tightened the muscles and dug his fingers in. Sure, the tone was bad but he'd get back into shape once he was out. Queensland. Not bad. Never been to Bundaberg. Where the rum comes from. Suddenly he could taste rum and coke, feel the hit at the back of the throat and the lift it gave you. After a couple of those you felt no pain. How long had it been since he'd had a drink? Got really pissed? He didn't like to calculate and the thought upset him. He lit another cigarette from the stub. Much, much too long. Well, it was almost over now. And there'd be rum and coke and Cassie forever.

  He flicked through the book, stopping to study the sexier postures and to read bits and pieces. His head started to ache and he took some more pain-killers. He was on a dozen a day now, bludging them from different guards and buying them from other inmates. The print danced in front of his eyes and what he could read of it didn't make much sense anyway. Who the fuck was the poet Auden? All poets were poofters, everyone knew that. And poofters had AIDS. Cassie didn't hang around with poofters, did she? He realised that he didn't know what she did, except appear on TV. That was another thing. A man didn't want his wife showing her crack on television, did he? Anger built and the pain wouldn't stop.

  He couldn't stand it. He called for a guard.

  'I want to go to the gym.'

  'You went this morning. Didn't do nothing.'

  'I'm feelin' better. Look, I'm meeting up with my missus soon. Gotta be in shape.'

  The guard grinned. 'You might of forgotten how.'

  You prick. I haven't forgotten how to smash faces like yours. Loew returned the grin and said nothing.

  'Okay. Get changed. I'll open you up in a few minutes.'

  'Thanks.'

  He ignored the pain, waded into it, walked through it, came out the other side. He used the weights, curls and presses, and rode the bike with the work rate set high. The other gym-users stepped warily around him. The guard watched from the sidelines, wondering if P46 was trying to commit suicide by giving himself a heart attack. Why would you do that if you were about to get out and join your wife? Especially that wife. The guards gossiped about the prisoners incessantly and knew more about them than they were supposed to. But this was the first he'd heard about P46 getting out. Might be bullshit. Probably was.

  Back in his cell, after vomiting and experiencing a severe bout of diarrhoea, Loew felt weak and shaken. There was pain throughout his body, not just in his head and, in a way, that was better. He clenched his teeth. Got to hold myself together. A couple of days, that's all. He tried to think of something that would give him some comfort. Cassie. No, not Cassie. All he could think of was the Ashfield bank job he'd pulled with Morrie Boyd. God, that had been a sweet one. Smooth as silk, everybody doing what they were told, money where it should have been. He remembered the fear in the eyes of the bank staff and the customers, and the weight of the gun in his hands. Good feelings, those. Morrie had been edgy, but he always was. No guts really, as he'd shown later when he'd rolled over like a puppy.

  Morrie had turned dog and of course he'd sworn to kill him. Forgotten all that long ago. Things change. What would he do if Morrie walked into his health club in Bundaberg? Loew smiled at the unlikely scenario, but he let it develop. Might lock us into a squash court and beat the shit out of him. Or cook him in a sauna for a while. Hold him under in the spa. He was a powerful little bugger, Morrie. I'd have to feel a bloody sight stronger than I do now to do anything. I wonder if he went straight. I wonder what it's like to go straight. Can't imagine it. Seeing something you want, there for the taking, and not going for it? Working all day, even for yourself, and that's all there is?

  He felt feverish and got up to splash water on his face. He felt nauseous too, but there was nothing in his stomach to come up. He fell back on the bed and thought about Charlie Spencer and Fats. They'd do hard time for killing a high-level jack and they'd spend money to get the dog who'd put them there. How good is this witness protection mob? How good is Dunlop? He wasn't bad back there in the court building. Very professional. And he'd come through on his promises. More or less. The first thing to do when he got to Bundy was to buy a gun. Like the KTG shotgun those guys had used on the two young coppers in Walsh Street. Cut down the barrel. Good spread. Slide action. Nice.

 

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