THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (31 page)

Cruise was in his late twenties, with steely blue eyes and spiked, blonde hair. He wore a navy blue tracksuit and his wiry frame spoke of innate strength. He pointed at Michelle, his voice tinged with an East London brogue, 'You're disgusting.'

'Get out,' Michelle snapped, her right arm covering her breasts. 'This is my apartment. Give me that key.' She held out her free hand.

'I've come to get what really
is
mine.' His eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'It's still here, isn't it?' He marched off towards the master bedroom.

'God, I hate him.' Michelle looked down at the carpet and balled her hands into fists. 'I really do ...' Even so, she quickly followed the object of her professed hatred.

Cruise's response surprised Goldman. From what he'd heard about the capricious photographer, he'd half-expected physical conflict, but it seemed Cruise had more concern for his drug than for his woman. Goldman put the Polaroid print face-down on the coffee table and grabbed his jeans from off the couch. Forcing his feet through his jeans' bunched bottoms, he heard explosive voices drift closer until Cruise and Michelle were in the room again.

'I'm not accountable to you,' Michelle said.

'It was on good faith that I left it here.'

'It was from paranoia that you hid it here. And yes, I did help myself to some of it. Call it storage tax. Nothing's free these days,
asshole
.'

Goldman cursed and gritted his teeth as he disentangled pubic hairs from his jeans' zipper. He looked up. Cruise held a brown paper package under his arm and stood over Michelle. She’d donned a dark blue kimono with an embroidered Chinese dragon on it. Her arms crested her breasts defensively.

'Nothing's free these days,
asshole
,' Cruise whined in a high-pitched voice, imitating Michelle with open derision. His tone hardened. 'Yeah, that's right, you don't give
anything
away, do you, babe? In fact' – he waved his hand dismissively at Goldman – 'I bet this loser had to empty his wallet to poke you.'

Michelle lashed her palm across Cruise's cheek, then did it again, harder. The blows were a catalyst. Without warning Cruise backhanded Michelle. She fell back on the couch, her kimono spilling open. Goldman dashed round the coffee table, all the while fumbling with the top button of his jeans. Cruise spun about and slammed his elbow into Goldman's chest. Goldman hurtled backward into the tall obelisk lamp standing between the two single seats. His falling weight crumpled the Monument-like shade as he slid down the wall. The impact caused the framed print of George Washington to dislodge from the wall and drop onto Goldman's head. Frame glass splintered into knife-like pieces and landed in a menacing array across the carpet.

Cruise loomed over Michelle who lay sprawled on the couch. He seemed turned on by her near-nakedness. The familiarity of her rose-tipped breasts marking her as his own. 'This is
our
place. That's why I have a key. We're together, babe, got it?' The savage glint in his eye branded him a vindictive lover, and also an addict skirting the treacherous waters of all-out psychosis. 'Don't think you can bring guys here to fuck, and use my cocaine as well. No way, you nasty little tramp.'

'Get away from me,' Michelle cried, pushing farther along the couch. She kicked at Cruise who matched her pace like a menacing stalker. 'What's this?' He grabbed the Polaroid print that had landed face-up on the carpet from Michelle inadvertently kicking the table. He stared at the print and his face took on a steely leer. 'Your family's sick. Your father's a goddam 
pervert!
'

Michelle spat at him and flecks of spittle peppered his cheek. He tossed the print aside and made a play for one of her legs. She screeched and kicked at him, knocking the ashtray to the floor. Lipstick-stained butts and a flurry of ash rained down on the carpet as the enamel ashtray landed a whisker's breadth from Cruise's foot. Michelle kicked out again. This time Cruise's Hasselblad camera flew off the table. He growled in protest, grabbed her ankle, and wrenched her from the couch.

No sooner had Michelle's head thumped against the floor than Goldman sprang into action. He stood over Cruise, his broad frame thrumming with menace.

'Leave her alone, Snowball, or I'll break your bones!'

Cruise swung a fist in reply. Goldman dodged the well-executed punch and assumed a right open Bi Jong position. Cruise edged forward with the steely confidence of a street-fighting childhood. Clashing episodes of dismal gray skies. East London corners and hard-headed youths.

'Come on, kung fu Aussie boy. Come on, have a go then!'

Goldman barely heard the insults as he dodged the swings and jabs coming his way. Still clutching his all-important package, Cruise managed to punch Goldman in the jaw. A hefty right undercut with his body weight behind it. The fugitive chemist was knocked back several steps. His head flooded with pain and blood oozed like warm sauce in his mouth.

However with newfound distance he gained opportunity.

He executed a powerful roundhouse reverse kick into the side of Cruise's head. The wiry Londoner brought his arms up for protection. The package of cocaine he was holding broke apart from the explosive kick. He flew backwards and landed with the drama of jettisoned cargo onto the red neon M standing in the corner of the room. Michelle gasped as the showy red letter hissed and sparked, lost its fluorescence, and broke into tiny pieces. The entertainment unit with the TV and VCR tottered as if about to lurch forward. Broken glass tubing littered the carpet and airborne powder looked like an impossible flurry of indoor snow. Cruise stirred and moaned but was soon out to it. 

Michelle fell back on the couch, hugging herself and sobbing. She shot forward and grabbed the Polaroid print from off the floor. 'Oh my God,' she exclaimed, shocked by irrefutable evidence of her father's adultery. 'He's so gross. So goddamn gross.' She tossed the print towards Cruise, repulsed by father and ex-lover alike. Congressman Eastman's daughter continued to sob, a crestfallen creature in blue silk, an unstrapped breast poking from her open kimono. Goldman sat down beside her. He stroked her silky hair and whispered consoling words, which seemed wide of the mark.

'Scott.' She sniffled and wiped her nose, having collected herself somewhat. 'I must say I'm impressed, that was amazing. How did you do that?' She performed a pale imitation of his kick, raising her foot off the floor.

He kissed her pale cheek. 'Listen, we should get out of here.' He motioned towards Cruise. 'I think he'll be coming around soon.'

'Well, you can just knock him down again. I'm up for a rerun.' Her eyes darted about the messed-up room. He could see she was distraught (not that he wasn't), and growing more so by the minute.

'Oh, Scott, you're bleeding.' With teary tenderness, she wiped blood from his mouth, then glanced about in vain for a box of tissues.

'Listen,' he said carefully, 'we should go to a motel or some place more private.' He wiped his bloodied mouth with the back of his hand. 'Can you pack quickly? As in right now?'

They'd reached a turning point in their fledgling relationship. But would she go with him? It was a big ask considering the short time they'd known each other. Nevertheless he believed a decision had to be made.

The ex-model blew hesitantly through her lips. She looked down at the floor as if considering her options. He knew it would be hard for her, even though she'd confided her relationship with Cruise was definitely on the rocks. But could she walk out on her mate of many years? And under such circumstances? It seemed a now or never situation. Whatever her reply, Goldman had his work cut out for him.

She looked up and accepted the challenge with a pronounced wink. 'Darn right I can pack right now. I'd like nothing better than to leave this lousy place.' She looked about her as if imbibing past times, but it seemed no cherished memories came to mind.

All the same, her eyes moistened as she appraised her former mate on the floor. Goldman doubted she was made of the right stuff to nurse Cruise back to a clean bill of health. The photographer needed professional help for his runaway addiction. Most likely Michelle had used up her store of compassion. Her capacity to care superseded by an overriding sense of survival. And from what she'd said earlier she wasn't about to forgive Cruise anytime soon for giving her a black eye.

'Yeah, let's get out of here.' She sniffled and brushed back her fringe. 'I've paid my dues at Heartbreak Hotel.' She squeezed Goldman's hand, and with a determined
humph
, got up and marched to the bedroom.

While Michelle packed, Cruise came to on the carpet. He struggled and cussed like an inebriated party-goer trying to get back on his feet. Goldman stood over him and short-punched him in the side of the head. The battered photographer groaned and returned to unconsciousness.

Pilar Artarmon pulled up in the driveway of her two-storey home in Green Haven, south east of Baltimore. Stephen's car was out front. Good. She checked herself in the rear-view mirror. She looked fine, considering. She wiped smudged lipstick from a corner of her mouth and straightened her hair.

What a morning.

She'd arrived at Cruise's apartment around tennish. A stunning woman in a red dress had let her in. Cruise wasn't home but was expected back any minute. In spite of sociable chitchat and cups of filtered Colombian coffee, time passed slowly for the two women. The woman in the red dress who'd introduced herself as Carmen said she'd known Cruise for several years – and by her fidgety demeanour was obviously keen for what her professed friend was bringing back.

More time passed. All but panicking, Carmen decided to check on Cruise. Apparently she knew the girl whom he'd gone to see. Quite well, in fact. Pilar stayed behind and played Police records, but her favourite singer's voice did little to assuage her growing frustration and boredom.

Carmen eventually returned with Cruise who was bloodied and sore and downright livid. What a story. Apparently the guy who'd shacked up with Cruise's girlfriend had beaten Cruise, then taken the car Cruise was driving, leaving with Cruise's girlfriend no less. Bottom line: no cocaine. Well, none that Cruise was willing to sell.

What an eye opener it had all proved. What a tortuous waste of time. Pilar grabbed her Yves Saint Laurent bag and climbed out of her sleek coupe. She was home at last, with Stephen, with what was familiar. The rebellious side that wanted to fly in the face of all she had was now behind her. She wanted no part of a world peopled by the likes of Carmen and Terence Cruise. What a pair of goddam losers.

She was keen to tell Stephen they were going to have a child. The responsibility of motherhood had bloomed inside her during the drive home. A miracle, really, but certainly no greater than the miracle growing in her belly. Raising a child with Stephen was now before her; and she was ready to meet the challenge, as she imagined her mother had been when carrying her first child.

She skipped up the front steps, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. The house was cold and empty, indifferent to the whirl of her entry.

'Stephen?'

She called again. No answer. Where was he? God, she wanted to hug him and kiss him and bestow his new status upon him.

'Darling?'

She strolled into the kitchen, her heels clacking loudly on imported marble tiles. She pulled off the
haute couture
wool jacket she'd bought in Paris and tossed it on a nearby counter. A note was on the kitchen table. She picked it up and read it. Her cheeks flushed, her slender hands, never marked by labour, started to shake.

It was serious.

Federal agents had taken Stephen away for questioning. Fortunately he'd left a contact number.

Tears welled in her eyes. How could such a terrible thing have happened? Especially on the eve of her telling him he was a father. She remembered what Stephen had said the other night about accessing classified material at work. Had he been taken away because of it? She didn't know. In any case, she would do all in her power to get her husband back. Her father was highly placed in the Marcos regime. He had powerful American connections. She would use her family's influence to fight for her husband. She wouldn't allow him to be snatched away from her and their unborn child like this. No way, not without a fight.

She stifled sobs and marched to the hallway phone, her tearful face fraught with motherly resolve.

PART THREE

ENDGAME

The desire for pleasure is the desire to celebrate control over one's reality – 

Nathaniel Brandon.

TWENTY-FIVE

Monday, 27th October 1980.

The runaway lovers were seated on a TWA flight to San Francisco. Goldman peered out the window and squinted from the glare of the afternoon sun on the DC10's outer wing. Glare or no, he was barely conscious of the distant landscape passing silently below him. His mind churned for an answer to his unlawful predicament. He knew complacency would prove his worst enemy. With each passing day it became easier to believe the events of last Friday night were a fanciful aberration on his part. Fragmented imagery of a stressed mind. But the fact his chipped knuckles still ached only confirmed the extraordinary events of that night had taken place.

The low, constant drone of the jet engines had encouraged Michelle to take a late-afternoon nap. Her head was cradled against Goldman's shoulder and the warmth of her body and the faint trace of her outgoing breath gave him cause for comfort.

Before leaving Michelle's Crystal City apartment on Saturday morning, Goldman had gone through Terence Cruise's pockets (while Cruise was still unconscious from the second blow to the head). He'd grabbed the keys to Michelle's Alfa Romeo, which since the couple's break-up Cruise had taken the liberty to drive. Goldman and Michelle had packed their meagre belongings into the red coupe before driving off in search of somewhere to stay.

They'd spent the weekend at Wicked Delights, a backstreet motel in Arlington. Accommodation was scarce for unbooked travellers that weekend due to an international Rotary Club convention in Washington DC. Accordingly hotels and motels for quite a radius were duly booked. In keeping with its name, the proprietors of Wicked Delights had fitted each room with the mandatory trappings of motel sex culture: a mirrored ceiling; a vibrating water bed; adult movies, r-rated and x-rated; scented massage oils; condoms; lubricants; and a variety of sex toys and accessories. Hourly and nightly rates were also on offer.