THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (6 page)

The middle-aged chemist finished off his beer and returned to the kitchen. He microwaved the remains of the previous night's pizza and leaned meditatively against the sink. With his employment history he could easily find another job should he tire of travelling and come home. There was no problem on that front. Meantime, who knew what women he might meet with time on his side and a sheaf of empty pages in his passport?

He looked through the window at the night-shrouded street outside. The houses and sidewalks looked the same as on any given evening, but inside him was the undeniable stirring of a second wind. Time to turn over a new leaf. No more 9 to5. No more listless weekends at home. No more same old, same old. His days at Silverwood Centre were numbered. He would see to it.

He'd quit his job.

SIX

General Kaplan studied his refrigerator's cluttered shelves. 'Damn.' He'd told his wife to include a six-pack of beer in the morning's groceries. He searched through the modular cupboards above and below the kitchen's main counter.

Nothing to drink.

The general was alone in his Aberdeen Proving Ground house. His wife at her Thursday-evening pottery class. His teenage son again unaccounted for. Probably at Ray's playing
Space Invaders
, he mused sharply. It was Dean's favourite line of late, its recent usage testing the limits of credibility, and equally Kaplan's patience.

He needed a drink.

Three fingers of Chivas Regal. He'd emptied his home of scotch a week before at the insistence of his doctor at the Walter Reed Army Medical Centre. His stomach ulcer, he'd been told, was rupturing from the stuff. Not that he didn't know.

He was unsettled and had been for hours. He'd heard from a reliable source there was talk of transferring his command to a new missile-testing range in the Nevada desert. No way in hell would he be roped into anything like that. He had influence and would stand his ground until the posting was handed to some clown prepared to wear it. Moreover, he'd learned General Turner was coming to Silverwood Centre the following afternoon.

'Damn.' He brought his fist down on the counter, though more in gesture than actual aggression. He's probably coming to break the news about my transfer, and question me about Goldman. He marched into the living room and took off his uniform jacket. After inspecting its torn armpit, he spread the green jacket across the back of his leather reading chair. He loosened his tie and thought about Goldman.
What did Turner know about the chemist?

Kaplan returned to the kitchen. His stomach ulcer flared like a stoked furnace in his midsection. He chomped down on an antacid tablet and opened the refrigerator. On the door's bottom shelf, next to a family bottle of Pepsi, was a small green bottle. One of his wife's drinks. He grabbed it and read the bottle's breezy label: CALIFORNIA SUNSHINE. A SPARKLING CONCOCTION OF TROPICAL FRUIT JUICES AND WHITE WINE.

Alcohol. He was tempted to try some, uninviting as the drink looked. His keen ears heard sounds at the front door. He returned the bottle to the fridge and slipped into the living room. He heard a familiar creak on the stairs as his son went up to his room. The general followed. The pencil-thin light spilling from under his son's closed door reflected off Kaplan's polished shoes as he stood outside the room. He rapped twice on the door and entered.

Sitting at his desk, Dean Kaplan spun round in a swivel seat. His hand shot in and out of his denim jacket's side pocket. 'Dad.' The lanky youth brushed aside his hair and slouched back on the desk. 'I've been over at Ray's.'

'Playing
Space Invaders
no doubt.'

'No, Ray's got this new game,
The Heavens Are Falling
. It's totally rad – '

'What'd you just put in your pocket, Dean?'

'In my pocket?' The cornered teenager feigned perplexity.

'Yes, in your pocket!'

Dean turned aside and stared with desperate calculation at a nearby Kiss poster, his blood-drained face mirroring the white-powdered faces of his favourite band.

'Show me what you just hid in your pocket!' Kaplan bellowed, finally venting some of the day's tension. Dean reached shakily into his pocket and put a bottle of eye drops onto the sticker-covered surface of his desk.

'Well, well,' Kaplan said with growing menace. He grabbed the bottle and read its label. 'Experiencing eye strain lately? Must be all that study.' The general shot forward and grabbed his son's shoulder. He reached into the pocket of Dean's jacket and pulled out a folded piece of exercise-book paper. Dean watched with snowballing panic as his father unfolded the find.

'What in Christ's name is this?' Kaplan hissed. His temples pounded as he stared at the rubble of powder strewn across the blue-lined paper. 'What is it? Smack? Angel Dust? What is it, Dean?'

Dean froze from the inside out as his father's booming voice filled the room. But he soon confessed in a bursting, adolescent drawl, 'It's only amphetamine, dad. A little bit is okay. A lot of kids are using it now. It keeps you from vagueing out in afternoon class, and it really helps with end-of-term study. It's not as bad as you think, dad ... it's only amphetamine.'

'Only,' Kaplan repeated, his flushed face level with Dean's. 'Only ... ' He stood back up. Without warning, he backhanded his son, knocking him from his seat and on to the carpeted floor.

Goldman reeled back from the force of the blow. He retaliated with a reverse roundhouse kick that fell short of his opponent's darting head. Brett Becker responded with a Qua Choe back fist strike to Goldman's midsection. The Silverwood chemist staggered back from the powerful strike and quickly formed a Hai Bo forearm defence. Becker lashed out with a left short-hook snap-strike, which untangled his opponent's arms. He followed through with a lightning punch to Goldman's temple. The blow knocked Goldman sideways and on to the mat.

A spiking pain spread across Goldman's skull as he raised himself up on his elbow. He shook his head to clear away the magenta and white flashes dancing on the edge of his vision. He tried to focus on the circular emblem on the back wall of the dojo: a black and white yin yang symbol circumscribed by three sets of broken lines. It was the emblem of Wing Chun Do, an ancient branch of Chinese fighting developed by sixteenth century Shaolin monks.

A Hong Kong national, Huang Tan opened a Wing Chun Do dojo in downtown LA in 1966. Robert Martel, a tough young local, enrolled in Tan's first Wing Chun Do class, and readily embraced the ancient art under Tan's strict tutelage. Years later Martel married a holidaying Australian nurse and migrated with his new bride to Sydney. He eventually opened a Wing Chun Do dojo in inner-city Newtown.

Studying at nearby Sydney University, Goldman enrolled in Martel's classes (after he was set upon by a gang of youths one night after class). Goldman trained under Martel for several years, only stopping when he migrated to the United States. During his time in Sydney, Goldman also learned street-fighting techniques from Michael Donovan, a student flatmate who made ends meet working as a crowd-controller.

Goldman had been at Silverwood Centre for several months when he discovered one of Tan's students, Billy Georgia, had opened a Wing Chun Do dojo in Baltimore. Under Georgia's professional guidance, Goldman had revived his ancient-Chinese fighting skills.

The Australian chemist regained his senses. The black and white emblem on the back wall of the dojo came sharply into focus. He launched himself back on his feet and attacked Becker with a straight-thrust kick to the solar plexus. Before his winded opponent could recoup, Goldman followed through with a lightning strike to the side of Becker's head.

Becker dropped to the ground.

'Point three,' Georgia declared with a loud clap. He waved the next two students on to the mat. Goldman helped Becker to his feet, hardly believing how quickly he'd finished the bout. It'd been a three point, no restriction bout: the head as much a target as the rest of the body. Fortunately for most, the no-restriction bout was a fortnightly event.

'Jesus, Scott. Go a bit easier next time.'

'You can talk,' Goldman said between breaths. He moved his head from side to side, causing several vertebrae to pop in protest. 'Jeez, I think I need a neck brace.'

'Ah, stop your whining.'

'Well, that was my last bout.'

'Yeah, mine too.'

The two of them showered and dressed in the dojo's blue-tiled changing room.

'Coming over to Miguel's for some eight-ball and beer? Gerry and Nathan will be there.'

'Nah, sorry Brett.' Goldman wiped his back with a large beach towel he'd bought in Hawaii. 'No can do, I have to get groceries for a dinner party tomorrow night.'

'Ah well, catch you next week then.'

'Yeah, righto, and I'll charge you the chiropractor's bill.'

'Yeah, bill my secretary.' Becker grinned and left the room, his high-pitched whistle bouncing off the narrow corridor outside.

Goldman finished dressing and stopped in front of the changing room mirror. He ran a brush through tangled hair and thought back to when he dropped Michelle off at her friend's Rosedale apartment.
Not a wise move
, he concluded for the nth time that evening.
Not a wise move at all to give a stranger – albeit a pretty one – Silverwood Centre contraband, along with your private telephone number
. With only seconds remaining until “thank you and goodbye”, he'd given Michelle his home number and offered her a lift back to DC on the weekend should she get stuck during her time without a car. He was attracted to her and didn’t want her walking out of his life without any chance of future contact.

She's cool
, he decided, checking his features in the lightly misted mirror. He rolled up his soiled outfit and towel and placed them in a sports bag. Like Becker before him, he whistled contentedly as he strolled along the corridor leading to the drizzled pavement outside. A thought plagued him, however, as he pulled up his collar and looked down the rain-spattered street,
Hmm, sure hope I'm home if she calls
.

Stephen Artarmon towelled himself dry and donned a terrycloth robe. He wiped condensation from off the bathroom mirror before brushing his damp hair in place. He strolled into the living room, his feet encased in backless slippers. A TV news story made him smirk. 'Reagan and Carter bickering again? I can't wait to see the televised debate next week.'

'Carter will get his ass whipped for sure,' his wife said.

'Really, by an old Hollywood has-been?'

'By an ex-governor of California, if you don't mind.' She turned to him. 'Honey, I'm picking up tickets for The Police in Washington next week, right?'

Police? In Washington? Artarmon's mind spun helplessly for a moment, then got back on track. Of course, The Police ... He'd only recently bought their new album,
Zenyatta Mondatta
. 'Next week? Sure, we can make it.'

'Are you okay, hon? You've been acting kinda weird since I got home.' Pilar Artarmon chewed gum and sat with her legs folded under her on a plush sofa. She blew on fresh nail polish and flexed her hand in the light of an antique Malaysian lamp, its kapur base inlaid with semi-precious stones. Artarmon dropped beside her, pecking her cheek and patting her slim brown knee. 'Yeah, I'm fine, really.'

Artarmon met his wife at a mutual friend's thirtieth birthday bash two years ago. A Filipino of Chinese and Sri Lankan extraction, Pilar was at the time completing her MBA at Harvard. After dancing, drinking and laughing with her for most of the evening, Artarmon fell prey to her exotic looks and charms. He'd pressed for her telephone number and got it from her before she went home with girlfriends. Over ensuing weeks Pilar was never far from his thoughts. He'd had his share of women but none had filled him with such acute longing; none had preoccupied his thoughts day and night. Accordingly he did all he could to win her, and he lucked out. Sixteen months after meeting, the couple married, out of genuine love, and a way to be rid of the two bodyguards Pilar's father kept constantly about her.

Ferdinand Luahlo was a high-ranking crony in the Marcos regime, having brutally manipulated his country's timber and tobacco markets. Artarmon's in-laws viewed Artarmon with suspicion and dismay, not liking that a middle-class American had snatched away their youngest daughter.

'Come on, babe. Why are you so weird tonight?'

Weird. The word echoed accusingly inside Artarmon as he picked up the TV's remote. 'I'm not weird.' He skipped stations before stopping on an episode of
M*A*S*H
. Martini glass in hand, Hawkeye Pierce was badmouthing Frank in front of Margaret, denouncing the bumbling surgeon for his adulterous ways. Artarmon tried to follow the thread of the comedy, but his mind was elsewhere. Specifically the foolhardy act of breaking into the Army's Milnet system. Now a part of him wondered why he'd done it. Still he'd covered his tracks – he was safe in that regard. The only possible flaw in the process was Scott Goldman. The Australian's big mouth ...

'Honey, what's your opinion of Scott Goldman? Remember him? That Australian guy who came to our dinner party the other week.'

'Scott Goldman?' Pilar looked up, genuinely surprised by the question, further convinced of her husband's strange mood.

'Yeah, Scott Goldman. What do you think of him as a person?'

She swallowed Perrier water from a glass bottle and stared thoughtfully at the colourless liquid as if bringing the fellow to mind. 'Hmm, I don't know why you invited him. We hardly know him.'

'I get along with him at work, he's an okay guy. So, what do you think of him?

'Well, he's friendly, not bad looking, and his Aussie accent's not too strong ... thank God for that.' She parted Artarmon's bathrobe and slid her fingertips seductively along his thigh, letting him know she was in the mood. If not now, then after dinner. He squeezed her hand tenderly, but brushed it aside.

With a “suit yourself” attitude, she returned to her nails. 'Well,' she said, in a tone which spoke of her want to get to the bottom of what was eating at her husband. 'What's he like?' She paused contemplatively. 'He's intelligent.' She raised a plucked eyebrow for effect. 'But I don't see him as particularly smart ... because he's got a reckless streak. And I imagine it will one day prove his downfall. He can't help it, it's his red hair.'