Torn Apart

'Hey, Cliff, my man. Spot me?'

He meant stand by and help if the weight attempted proved too much for him or if he faltered for some reason. This was a ridiculous request given the difference in our strength and he knew it.

'Don't be silly,' I said. 'If you can't handle it I couldn't and you're looking at a crushed chest.'

'Piker,' he said, as he loaded weights onto the bar.

'Tell you what I will do,' I said. 'I'll buy you a few schooners in return for a chat.'

'You're on, man. Stand aside. I got testosterone to burn.'

He went into his routine, muscles and veins in his head and torso bulging and sweat breaking out all over his big, brown body. It made me tired to watch him. I finished my stint, showered, and waited for him in the foyer. He came bounding out dressed in his usual tight T-shirt, hooded jacket, jeans and basketball boots. But the outfit was shabby and some flab was moving on his torso. Marvis's best days were behind him.

We crossed to the pub on the corner of Carlisle Street and

I ordered two schooners of old for him and one of light for me. He put the first drink down in a couple of gulps, sighed and settled back in his creaking chair.

'So, Cliff, I hear you had a bout with the big C.'

'No, with a heart attack, and I won.'

He patted the roll of fat around his waist. 'Headed that way myself less'n I make some changes.'

'I'm looking for someone.'

He smiled. 'Ain't we all?'

'Frankie Szabo.'

'Don't know why anyone would be looking for him. He's a mean mother.'

'I know that. I have my reasons.'

He held out his empty glass. 'Which are?'

I shook my head and got up to get him another drink. My glass was half full, but when I got back he'd emptied it.

'Savin' you from yourself, brother. Why I'm asking is that I can see that you're carrying and I like to know what I'm selling and why.'

I was wearing a loose denim jacket that I thought concealed the shoulder holster, but Marvis's eyes were sharpened by experience.

'It's for protection, nothing more.'

'Yeah, sure. I'm just a dumb nigger doesn't know nothing.'

'Don't come that line with me.' I pulled a newspaper cutting, a bit frayed now from constant use, about Patrick's death, from my pocket and passed it to him. I told him the dead man and I were related, that we looked alike and the killing happened in my house.

Marvis whistled. 'I get it.'

'I never thought you were dumb, Marvis.' I took out my wallet and peeled off two hundred dollar notes and one fifty. 'For the pleasure of your company. Same again if you can help.'

'You trust me?'

'No.'

'Good. I don' trust folks as trust me.'

I put the notes under my empty glass. 'Szabo. He was in your line of work but he expanded a little which put him inside.'

'Dumb, and him not even a nigger.'

'Marvis.'

'Happens I did run into someone who ran into Frankie recently. Sold him certain items, he said.'

'What items?'

'Didn't say, but this man deals in what you might call ordnance and mind-altering substances.'

'Great. Who are we talking about?'

'Nobody you know or want to know, but he told me a bit about Frankie's new… field of endeavour. Seems he joined a certain organisation. Another two-fifty you said?'

'For something solid that checks out.'

Marvis slid the now damp notes towards him and beckoned with his index finger. I took out more money and leaned closer across the table.

Marvis smiled and chuckled like Gene Hackman. 'Frankie's in with a soldier of fortune crew, name of the Western Warriors up Hawkesbury way. Ain't hard to find- fuckers have themselves a website.'

14

I was heading for home and my Mac when Sheila called on my mobile. Mindful of my precarious legal position, I pulled over to take the call.

'Where are you?' she said.

'Almost home.'

'Can I visit? I've got something to celebrate.'

She was waiting out front when I arrived. She put her arms around me and we kissed. Then she pulled back, pointing to my armpit.

'Is that what I think it is?'

'For protection only. Come in and tell me what's happened.'

I thought it was going to be something legal-applying for the document Viv had mentioned, or a positive result from the divorce records search, but her manner and her clothes told me something different. She was wearing a blue silk dress with a faux fur jacket. She'd had something done to her hair and her shoes looked new. She moved with the same grace as before but perhaps more confidently. No whiff of tobacco smoke. She produced a bottle of champagne from her bag and waved it in my face.

'I got the part.'

Her face was alight with happiness and it communicated directly to me. I reached for her and we kissed again. It had been a long time since I'd had what has to be one of the great human experiences-the blending and sharing of sexual and emotional and professional pleasure. It had happened a few times before-when Lily won a Walkley award for journalism; when Glen Withers got a police promotion; when Helen Broadway's vineyard scored a gold medal; when Cyn had got a commission to design a building. I hadn't expected to feel it again, but here it was.

We opened and poured and drank. She told me about the role in the film she'd auditioned for-the avenging mother in a thriller about a miscarriage of justice. She said she needed to project sex and danger and cracked it at the audition.

'I have to thank you, Cliff.'

'How's that?'

'You supplied the sex charge and you still aren't sure that I didn't arrange to have Patrick killed, are you?'

I'd taken off my jacket, removed the shoulder rig, stowed it away, and taken out the notebook I'd opened just that morning to keep track of what I was doing. My habit was to write down the names of the people I was dealing with under the case heading and draw connecting arrows and dots between them indicating possible guilt, possible lies, gaps in information. I showed her the dotted lines running from her name.

'What's that mean?'

'What you said-a maybe.'

'What's this?'

I'd drawn a line through the information about James O'Day, the fire at the hotel in Hamilton, and the aggrieved publican.

'No connection,' I said. I was high on adrenalin and alcohol. 'Case closed.'

'But not for me?'

'Not yet.'

We made love. It was slower this time but just as good. Only other difference was that she was careful with her clothes- new underwear, too. Amazing what a change a bit of good luck can make. She didn't even mention the legal advice she'd had from Viv until after we'd dressed and were thinking of where to go for dinner. We agreed on walking to the Indian in Glebe Point Road.

'Your lawyer mate was helpful,' she said.

'Done anything about it yet?'

'No, but on the strength of this job I'll be able to get someone good, not poor old Harvey. What have you been doing with yourself?'

I told her about my possible nemesis, Szabo, and the reason for carrying the gun. Didn't mention the parcels from the UK or the night in the lock-up. She smoothed down her dress and glanced at the cupboard where I'd put the pistol.

'Are you going to take it with you now?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

I shook my head, didn't want to go into the details.

'Might help me to get in character,' she said. 'Sorry, I know it's serious. That's the trouble with this business, confusing make-believe with reality.'

I thought about that as we walked. She took my arm proprietorily. With her height, stylish clothes and gleaming hair, she turned heads. Was this make-believe or reality? We all play roles, but actors can play them more convincingly than most.

I ate my fill; she ate much less.

'Have to watch my figure. This bitch I'm playing's thin as a snake, acts like one, too. Have to do some jogging, which I hate. What d'you do to the keep the flab down?'

'Gym, walking, bit of tennis. Light on the carbs.'

She pointed to my plate. 'I didn't notice.'