The Bear Pit (32 page)

“It really does,” agreed Maureen.

“Girls,” said their father, “welcome to the real world. That's how it's held together. By deals.”

“You don't sound—
disgusted
?” said Claire.

He turned aside and spat into a nearby bush, then turned back to them. “That's how I feel,
every
time. Then I spit, get the taste out of my mouth and try to get on with the job. Which in this case is finding out who paid John August to bump off the Premier.”

“There's another rumour—” said Maureen.

He sighed. “There always is.”

“That the Premier might not have been the target, that it could've been Jack Aldwych or his son.”

So far the task force had managed to be silent on its suspicions about Joanna Everitt; even the veteran police reporters had not been told. The media had concentrated on the killing of Hans Vanderberg, the
political
murder, and though there had been one or two suggestions that Aldwych, though never naming him, might have been the target, there had been no follow-up. Janis Eden, if anyone remembered her, was not in the cast of characters.

“We've thought of that,” said Malone non-committedly.

“And are you chasing it up?” asked Claire.

“We are pursuing our enquiries—”

His two daughters looked at each other. “Wouldn't he give you diarrhoea?” said Claire. “Putting it politely.”

Then Lisa came to the back door. “All right, you've had long enough—the conference is over. Have your shower, darl, and we'll have dinner.”

“What's for dinner?” asked Maureen.

“For you two, humble pie.”

Again the two girls looked at each other. “They should be on
Australia's Funniest Home Videos
,” said Maureen.

“How did we ever deserve them?” asked Claire.

Malone stood up, slapped the behinds of both of them and went ahead of them out the pool gate and into the house. He winked at Lisa as he passed her and went on into their bedroom to strip for his shower. The girls could be pains in the arse, like all offspring, but he loved them dearly.

And
couldn't express his relief that Maureen had got herself out of the firing line.

IV

Billy Eustace had come here to the boardroom of Olympic Tower, bringing with him Roger Ladbroke, on whom he was relying more and more. He had been massaged, polished, done over as much as the rough original had allowed; Ladbroke had brought in the image-makers and Billy Eustace had surrendered. He had never been a poor dresser, as his predecessor had been, but just nondescript. Now he had a new wardrobe, which, he had to admit as he looked in a mirror, made him look good, if not impressive. The shine was taken off the image by how much it had cost him. He still counted pennies, even though they were no longer minted.

The visit was an unofficial, non-governmental one; skulbuggery, as Ladbroke's old boss would have called it. The others in the room: the two Aldwyches, Leslie Chung, Madame Tzu, General Wang-Te and Camilla Feng: all recognized it as such. There was no moral atmosphere to spoil it. They all, even the
young
Miss Feng, knew this wasn't just a chat over coffee and biscuits.

“Iced Vo-Vos,” said Jack Aldwych, holding up the national icon. “My favourites.”

“Mine, too,” said Eustace, not to be outdone in patriotic fervour. So far the conversation had been no more than ping-pong, the balls bouncing lightly and no one making a smash. So far all the balls had remained on the table, but Aldwych and Co. were waiting to see what was under it.

Roger Ladbroke, no patriot he, had passed on the Iced Vo-Vos and just sipped his coffee. He had, with hand on heart (or rather his wife's: he had been fondling her breast in bed at the time) sworn to leave politics and go back to journalism; there had been no shortage of offers, the media falling over themselves and each other to get him on their payroll and dish out the dirt of the past twenty-two years. Then the light on the road to Damascus had blinked, faded, gone out like a faulty traffic light; then abruptly it had turned red and turned him back to politics, or sin, call it what you liked. It would even be worth staying on as Billy Eustace's minder to remain where he was, in the swamp of politics that smelled, to him, like a garden of poppies. He couldn't resist the drug.

Madame
Tzu was drinking green tea, not coffee, and had turned her nose up at the biscuits. At last she grew tired of the ping-pong and whacked the ball at the corner of the table: “Are you going to win the election, Mr. Eustace?”

“Can't lose,” said Eustace, glad the game was at last warming up, and looked at Ladbroke for confirmation, if a little apprehensively. The bloody polls were still predicting the voting would be too close to call. Line-ball, said the commentators, some of whom hadn't a clue what a line-ball was.

“We are succeeding in convincing the voters that Mr. Eustace is the natural successor to Hans Vanderberg—”Ladbroke almost said,
I am succeeding in convincing
. . . But he knew as well as anyone that acolytes with arrogance beyond their station might just as well cut their own throats because sooner or later their bosses would do it for them. Nothing has changed in the upper galleries of history. “Our government will be returned. The margin will be less, we'll lose some seats, but we'll retain power.”

“How can you be so sure?” Madame Tzu didn't trust, or had contempt for, democracy.

“The other side has been out to lunch for the past four years. They have just woken up, too late.”

“So you'll be the Premier?” said Aldwych.

“No doubt about it,” said Eustace and managed an air of confidence rather like a threadbare overcoat. He was well-dressed now, but he was still wondering if the wardrobe of Premier would fit him.

“So what do you want from us?” said Aldwych, putting away the ping-pong balls.

Even after two years here amongst the barbarians Madame Tzu was still surprised at the bluntness of the Australian approach. Even in the mad, mad days of Chairman Mao circumlocution had still been practised; the Red Guards might give one a punch in the face, but they had been an aberration and soon disappeared. She remarked that Chairman—no, Premier Eustace did not appear put out by the bluntness.

“We understand,” said Billy Eustace, “you would like a bill introduced setting up a casino somewhere.”

“Coffs Harbour,” said Les Chung, who had been silent up till now.

“
Wherever,” said Eustace; if the price was right, he'd give it to them in Macquarie Street, right across from Parliament House. “We understand Hans was going to promote such a bill.”

“Where did you get that understanding?” Aldwych looked at Ladbroke.

“He told me,” said Ladbroke. “If he were still alive, it would have been my job to sell it.”

“And can you still sell it?” asked Camilla Feng.

So far General Wang-Te was the only one who had remained silent, but he had missed nothing and behind the designer glasses his eyes were flickering like an accountant's calculator. He would never be Westernized, or Australianized, but he enjoyed the education.

“We can sell it,” said Ladbroke confidently. The years had taught him what kites would fly and he knew this one would. The voters now looked on gambling as one of the higher pursuits in life.

“How much will it cost?” asked Jack Junior, chairman and keeper of the books.

Eustace looked at Ladbroke, who had to carry the night-soil; even The Dutchman hadn't quoted the price. “Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“What a coincidence!” said Camilla Feng. “Exactly the same price—I mean amount—we gave to the Boolagong electorate.”

“Not an
extra
quarter of a million,” said Eustace. “The same money. It stays with Boolagong—at least till the election is over.”

“Mrs. Vanderberg won't like it,” said Les Chung and looked again at Ladbroke: “She'll be disappointed in you.”

“Disappointed, yes, but no more than that,” said Ladbroke. “Gert is a pragmatic woman. She can still run Boolagong, be Mother Teresa out there, and we'll see that Barry Rix, her man, gets pre- selection and is elected.”

“We'd heard that you were backing Jerry Balmoral.” Les Chung looked at Eustace this time.

“Where did you hear that?” But Eustace was not surprised. Radar in State politics was more advanced than anything the Pentagon had yet developed.

“He told me,” said Camilla Feng. She had been out with Balmoral again, just once, and let him
kiss
her, promising that next time her mother wouldn't be waiting up for her. He had gone away satisfied with that, satisfied, indeed, with the whole night. They had gone to the Golden Gate where, she told him, Mr. Chung had insisted the dinner should be on him.

“That was yesterday's news,” said Ladbroke, who, like a good minder, was already into next week's news. “Balmoral and Mr. Clizbe, from Trades Congress, and Peter Kelzo, whom I think you know, have got together and think they are going to take over Boolagong. It won't happen. Barry Rix will be pre-selected, we'll get behind him and see he's elected and he will then put forward the casino bill, then the Premier—” he nodded at Billy Eustace, who nodded in acknowledgement—“then the Premier will take it up and it will go through.”

“What about the Upper House?” asked Aldwych.

“A mix of hacks, nuts and time-servers. We have the majority there and the bill will go through.”

“Who is your majority? The hacks, nuts or time-servers?”

Ladbroke smiled. “We have no nuts in our party.”

“And what will happen to the two hundred and fifty thousand?” at last asked General Wang-Te.

Billy Eustace looked at him as if he had only just arrived. He was not at ease with Asians; they all looked alike to him. Even Les Chung was a stranger to him; he was not to know it, but Chung was a stranger to many people and Chung didn't want it otherwise. But this feller was a Chinese general and represented the face of an army of millions. True, he was an ex-general, but Billy Eustace knew there were no ex-generals.

“It comes back to the Premier's Fund.”

“What's that?” said Madame Tzu.

“Don't ask,” said Aldwych and winked at the Premier.

“It's agreed then?” said Eustace.

“If it can be done without holding a gun at Mrs. Vanderberg's head,” said Chung. “We don't want any bad publicity. We don't want
any
publicity.”

“
It can be done,” said Ladbroke and knew he would be the one sent to do it.

“There's still unfinished business, though,” said Jack Junior. “We don't know who killed Hans Vanderberg.”

“Yes, we do,” said Eustace. “A man named August. The police are after him now. It's been on all the news—”

“I don't mean
him
,” said Jack Junior. “Who paid him? The reports said the police found a suitcase full of money.”

“I thought you had your own suspect?” said Eustace.

“Oh?” said Jack Senior. “Who told you that?”

“I'm the Police Minister as well as Premier.”

He's no longer
Acting
, thought Ladbroke. He's going to be harder to mind than I thought.

“You can forget the woman you had in mind,” said the Police Minister and Premier. “Hans was the target, not you.”

Where did he get that from? Ladbroke wondered. He definitely is going to be hard to mind.

“You're sure?” Aldwych was surprised that he felt disappointed. Surprise was new to him: he must be getting old.

“Absolutely sure. You were not the target. Nor you,” he told Jack Junior.

The latter didn't try to hide his relief. But: “How much more do you know?”

Eustace could be voluble, but now he was trying for a new model: the Sphinx. He had no idea who or what the original Sphinx had been; Peter Kelzo might have told him, but he would not ask the time of day of Kelzo. His model was the Sphinx in Egypt and when he had told Ladbroke, the latter had at first been relieved, grateful that he would not have to write corrections for a mouth that too often had run off the road. Then he had begun to wonder how you wrote press releases for a monument.

“I know enough, Mr. Aldwych. Just take it for granted, you've got no worries.” He stood up. Somewhere in the past couple of days he had gained a semblance of dignity, of authority. The image-makers would have been encouraged, though he was still in the developing fluid and the desired image
still
was fuzzy. “Thanks for the Iced Vo-Vos. Pity they're now owned by the Americans.”

“The Americans own
everything
,” said Madame Tzu spitefully.

Eustace looked at Camilla Feng. “Will you be seeing Jerry Balmoral again?”

“There's no point now, is there?” she said. “He was getting nowhere and now he's going nowhere.”

“You have so much good sense for a young woman,” said Madame Tzu. “I was like you when young.”

“I'll bet,” said Aldwych.

“The old make better use of youth than the young.”

Ladbroke raised his eyebrows. It sounded like old times, The Dutchman mangling the language into aphorisms that sounded like sense.

Jack Junior had no time for philosophy, not if it got in the way of business: “Nothing that's been said in here will get outside this office, will it?”

“Of course not,” said Ladbroke and sounded annoyed it should be suggested that a minder would not know when lips were sealed.

“You should of worked for me,” said Aldwych with a grin, “before I retired.”

“It would have been easier,” said Ladbroke and gave Billy Eustace a smile to say he didn't mean it. Not much.

Eustace straightened his tie; he was always in fashion round the neck. Two years ago ties had looked like regurgitation; last year they had all been yellow, like an outbreak of sartorial malaria; this year it was the Olympics tie, a squiggle on the chest. “It will be a pleasure working with you all.”