Coral Sea Affair
By Drew Lindsay
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © Drew Lindsay 2011
The right of Drew Lindsay as the Author of this Work has been asserted.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
For my Mother, Josephine Lindsay who never got the chance to read it, and for my Father, David Lindsay who doesn’t like reading fiction anyway.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
“****”
ALSO BY DREW LINDSAY
The Killing
Black Mountain Affair
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you Leonarda for the beautiful cover work.
Thank you to the people who took the time to point out that my spelling is lousy; that I can’t always rely on spellchecker and it’s about time I actually learned the difference between it’s and its (hence a bit of a cleanup and the release of this 2nd edition)
“****”
Chapter One
‘You went too far this time Ben.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t just run around shooting people. It doesn’t make the department look good.’
‘One of them had a carving knife Peter and the other was swinging a machete. I was going in. They were coming out. They had just stabbed a teller and grabbed money.’
‘You didn’t know that.’
‘I knew they were in a damn hurry to get out of there and they looked fairly determined to carve me up in order to do so.’
‘So you pulled out your gun and shot one in the throat and the other one in the stomach.’
‘I shot the skinny one in the stomach. I couldn’t afford to miss because he had the machete. I was actually aiming for his chest but I’m a bit out of practice.’
‘Out of practice! You shot a gay 3 months ago for threatening his hair dresser.’
‘He had a knife to the poor man’s throat and fully intended to slice him.’
‘What, over a bad streak? Are you crazy?
‘So I just stand there and watch the guy’s artery sliced and then shoot?’
‘Well the gay is dead. The hair dresser is still recovering from a heart attack, and the family of both are threatening to sue.’
‘I didn’t cause his heart attack. Be fair Pete.’
‘You blew the gay’s brains all over the hair dresser’s face.’
‘You’re missing the point.’
‘Well in the case of this latest alleged robbery, the suspects are both stone dead and their parents want your hide nailed and so does the Commissioner.’
‘Suspects! Alleged robbery!
Detective Sergeant Ben Hood slumped into a chair and breathed out a long sigh. The room he was in was on the 9th floor of Police Headquarters in Sydney. The air conditioning vent above his head rattled but at least for a change it was blowing cool air to combat the Australian summer heat rather than the hit and miss mixture of various temperatures that were normal for that building.
Detective Inspector Peter Dunn sat opposite him with a large fake timber laminated desk between them.
Ben looked out the window over thick summer foliage in Hyde Park. He watched as children with their Mothers set picnics on the grass near the war memorial. He looked back at his long time friend but Peter lowered his eyes to the file in front of him.
‘They want you put out to pasture Ben. I can’t help you this time.
‘Pasture?’
‘Yeah, gone. Finished. Retired.’
‘I won’t go. I’m not even 50!’
‘You’re 50 next month you jerk and you keep shooting people.’
‘They need bloody well shooting and you know that.’
‘Haven’t you ever heard of a taser?’
Ben sat back and laughed. ‘You and I both know that I’m not authorised to carry a taser and even if I had one, you only get one shot and then the other guy slices you.’
‘And you’re not authorised to load up with high powered hollow points or whatever you are putting in that Glock and splatter people over the landscape.’
‘Hit them with standard issue and they’ll put their finger in the hole and keep coming.’
The two men stared at each other.
‘It’s likely you’ll go down over this one Ben. The non issue loads will be reported to the Coroner this time.’
Ben looked out the window and fiddled with his watch.
Peter looked back at the papers on his desk. ‘OK. This is the deal. You clear out for 3 months on full pay and get some counselling.’
‘You are kidding!’
‘Anger management.’
‘ANGER MANAGEMENT!’
‘And then we do an analysis of your progress and a decision will be made in relation to your ongoing relationship with the department.’
‘And what do I do while I’m not working for 3 months?’
‘Take a holiday. Book a romantic trip for you and Fay to the Maldives.’
‘The Maldives! Me and Fay! She hates the sun and heat and she hates tropical places and she hates me! You know that!.’
‘Re kindle the relationship.’
‘RE KINDLE! She would tie me to a coconut tree and re-kindle a fairly decent fire under my arse with anything she could find to burn.’
‘Well you are the one that keeps a photo of Brenda Grant in your office.’
‘And I’ve got one of her in my wallet too. So what? Brenda’s a pin up girl after all. No harm done. A movie star for God’s sake!’
‘Yeah well Fay doesn’t see it that way mate.’
‘Yeah well Fay didn’t seem to mind sleeping with a bloke who fixed our fence.’
‘I’m not getting into this with you Ben. You are now officially on paid leave for 3 months. I want your stuff.’
Ben leaned forward in the chair, examining his friend’s face for any sign that he may relent. Peter Dunn watched him carefully. Ben removed his issue handcuffs from the pouch on the back of his belt and placed them on the desk. He then unclipped the Glock 35 from his pancake holster, ejected the 15 round clip and put both on the desk in front of him. Inspector Dunn picked up the gun. ‘How did you get one of these? They’re not standard issue.’
‘I’m in special ops.’
‘Special ops my arse.’
‘It’s got NSW Police stamped on it, right?’
‘Good Lord!’ Peter thumbed one of the bullets out of the clip and examined it. ‘These are standard load.’
‘Yeah, so.?’
‘You weren’t using these in the last shooting Ben.’
‘I have mood swings….’
Peter Dunn sat back slowly in his chair. He placed both hands, palms down on the desk. ‘That’s why you have to go Ben. We don’t do stuff like that in this department any more. Buggered records. Non standard weapons and equipment. Cover ups. We have computers now that track everything.
‘Yeah and the crims are making a laughing stock of the Police Force. Gangs of drunken low life’s are out of control all over the place. Anyone in their way gets beaten up or killed. Two good uniformed cops at Fairfield got stabbed just last night because they tried to break up a drug deal. Did that ever happen when we worked Fairfield 25 years ago?’
‘That was 25 years ago. Things have changed Ben.’
‘Well you have changed; that’s for sure.’
‘You cant just go around breaking arms and shooting people!’ Peter’s voice was rising in volume.
‘Worked in Fairfield 25 years ago.’
‘Not any more!’
‘Remember when we used to get the dog guys to put their nasty German Shepherds in with a group of drug dealing zips at one of those Cabramatta night clubs? The shit was flying everywhere and I’m not just talking white powder.’
‘OK….. Enough. Badge.’
Ben took out his Police Badge and Identification wallet and laid it on the desk. ‘Satisfied?’
Peter Dunn slumped back in his chair. He pushed his right hand through thinning hair. ‘OK smart arse. You got anything else?’
‘Like what?’
‘Weapons?’
‘Na.’
‘Yeah, likely. You are going to get into deep shit if you’ve got other stuff you know.’
‘Nothing. OK?’
The two men looked at each other for several seconds. Inspector Dunn put the handcuffs, gun and identification badge in his desk drawer and locked it.
‘So what am I supposed to do now?’ asked Ben.
‘Take a holiday. Get back to the gym. Just look at yourself. You’ve put on weight and you are out of condition.’
‘That’s why I’ve got the gun.’
The two remained silent for several moments.
Peter Dunn stood and Ben stood slowly as well. The meeting was over. ‘Go and talk to that Jap guy again. He did you some good. He straightened you out last time.’
‘I don’t need straightening out…..and he’s Korean.’
‘Just do it. OK?’
Ben turned and walked out of the office.
“****”
Chapter Two
The Australian summer had arrived on a Thursday this year. Spring had warmed up to its usual ‘hit and miss’ way with warm days followed by a plunge into cold. On the Thursday that Ben Hood walked out of Police Headquarters after handing over his badge, handcuffs and gun; summer had arrived with a vengeance.
Ben walked slowly back to the Criminal Investigation Branch, a short distance away in Liverpool street. He knew the boys would already know what had happened. Juicy news travelled fast in the job. The bland façade of the CIB confronted him. His car was parked in the basement and he had stuff to collect. The plan was to be in and out quickly.
As the lift doors opened on the 11th floor, his worst fears were realised as he walked past the skull and crossbones hanging over the entrance to the Special Operations Team headquarters.
He had been walking with hunched shoulders. Defeated. Sad. He wasn’t going to let them see him that way. Ben straightened up to his full height of six foot one, pulled in his slowly increasing middle aged girth and flexed his well developed arm muscles. At least he had retained his arm muscles. His blue eyes were piercing; a feature which had assisted with numerous Police interrogations and several out of hours encounters with the opposite sex. That had also probably contributed to the rather distant relationship he now shared with his wife. His short cropped brown hair was thinning on top but thick at the sides with just a hint of grey. He had forgotten to shave that morning so dark stubble was evident.
His suit had seen better days. Dark blue pin striped. The seam in his trousers had disappeared. He no longer had a large gun to hide so his coat hung over his shoulder from his right hand finger and the empty pancake holster was in plain view.
Ben walked into the squad room. Eight young male and two female faces swung towards him. Most were smiling. The two female faces were not. Ben scanned the room and walked confidently to his desk. He put his coat on the back of his chair and sat down. No-one spoke.
Ben looked at the framed photograph of movie star Brenda Grant on his desk. Someone had blackened out one of her front teeth with a texta pen on glass. They were always doing that, or worse and he had always faithfully cleaned off the ink and restored her to her incredible beauty.
He put the photograph of Brenda Grant face down on the desk. He looked at one of the young Detectives. ‘Brian. Could you get a box for my stuff?’
‘Yes sir,’ said a youthful Brian and he scurried to the break out room.
Ben scanned the 7 male faces and ignored the girls. ‘Obviously you all know?’ Several mumbled that they did.
‘Looks like I’ll be trying to start another life eh? Might even go to Hollywood and meet Brenda.’
Laughter rippled through the room.
‘Well why not? I’m not that old.’
Detective Simon Bastock put his hand up to get Ben’s full attention and said, ‘Ben, you ARE that old and Brenda Grant is half your age. You are also married. Brenda is totally untouchable, way out of your league and lives in a body guarded mansion on the other side of the planet. You have been pulling our legs with this Brenda Grant thing, right?’
Brian walked back into the room and dropped a cardboard carton on Ben’s desk. Ben looked back at Simon Bastock. ‘You’ve got to have dreams mate. We work one of the crap jobs of the world so you have to have dreams…..even if they are out of your reach.’
Simon said nothing. Ben emptied the contents of his desk drawers into the box and laid the framed photo of Brenda Grant on top. A phone rang on a distant desk and was answered by one of the girls. The Police radio squawked softly from a speaker in the ceiling. Ben threw his coat over the cardboard box and lifted it into his arms. ‘You guys take care and don’t forget to write.’
‘What are you really going to do Ben?’ asked Simon.
‘Get used to being washed up I suppose,’ said Ben and he walked out of the office. As he waited for the lift he became aware of someone beside him. Ben looked down at the young female Detective. He had forgotten her name. She placed a business card in the pocket of his shirt.
‘What’s this?’
‘A friend of mine. I used to date him. He’s in security.’
‘I hate security.’
‘This is different. It’s a very professional operation Ben. They need people like you.’
‘Not interested.’
‘Just in case.’
Ben looked into the pretty face and sparkling dark brown eyes. ‘OK, thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.’
The lift arrived and he stepped in. He did not look back at the girl as the doors closed.
Simon Bastock looked around the squad room at his colleagues. He glanced briefly at Detective Lisbet Fenton as she walked back into the room from the lift foyer and dropped into a chair at her desk. Bastock laughed loudly. ‘Tell you what guys. If I ever see any evidence that Hood gets Brenda Grant to even acknowledge that he’s alive, I’ll personally send the bugger a thousand bucks.’
Lisbet Fenton looked up from her desk. ‘Careful there Simon. You just never know.’
‘I’m not joking! A thousand bucks to Hood if I see any evidence from anywhere that can convince me baby eyes even knows Hood is alive. You’re all witnesses, right?’
‘Right,’ said Lisbet. ‘We’re all witnesses.’
“****”
Chapter Three
The CIB basement was dark. It wasn’t supposed to be dark but no-one seemed to bother about the fluorescent tubes which had expired long ago. On B2, eight tubes worked, 3 flickered and eighteen were dead. Ben manually unlocked his battered Commodore sedan. The remote control locking had never worked from the day he bought it. He opened a rear door and slid the box of possessions onto the seat. He slammed the door and the booming echo off cold unpainted concrete startled him for a second.
He knew he should head home. Fay would probably be out but she would be back later and things needed some straightening out. A car roared up a ramp, its tyres screeching on the painted concrete.
‘Bugger it…’ he whispered. Ben locked his car and walked to the lift. He wasn’t going home. His mind was too stirred up and restless for that. He had to get somewhere cool and quiet and think for a while.
As he exited the building, a crowd of laughing teenagers ran past him heading for the Hyde Park subway. He walked towards the centre of Sydney, sweat rolling off his face and neck and soaking his shirt. The George Street cinema complex was cool and at least it would be relatively dark. Once again, teenagers milled around everywhere, sipping coke and laughing at nothing, or at least to Ben it seemed to be nothing. A group of elderly men and women were being ushered into a new released screening of Gone with the Wind. Cinema 4 was about to show ‘Relative Humidity’; starring Brenda Grant and a cast of others unrecognisable to Ben. It didn’t matter. He paid for a ticket and went to the Cinema doors.
A girl in her late 20’s took his ticket. He noted her short jet black hair and very white face with bright mauve lipstick. He considered that she had not actually been exposed to any kind of sunlight for years. She wore a tight fitting, light grey business suit. She smiled at him. ‘You’re in luck. Brenda is out and Vampires are in.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Vampires. Blood suckers. Brenda doesn’t do that although she has potential.’
‘I’m sorry. What are you talking about?’
‘You’ll see when you get inside.’ She led Ben into the Cinema. It was almost empty. A middle aged couple sat in the third row back from the screen to the left. An elderly male sat in the centre of the cinema, 6 rows back from the screen. He was wearing a bright red baseball cap. Two young girls sat in the front row on the right. They were feeding each other pop corn from a very large yellow cardboard container. The lighting was dim. The screen was dark.
‘Where you want to sit Mister, and why are you wearing an empty gun holster?’ Ben looked back at the usher. He’d forgotten about the pancake holster. ‘At the back. In the middle.’
‘Figured.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothin.’
‘Look, I just got fired. I need somewhere dark and cool to chill out and I happen to think Brenda Grant is an amazing actress.’
‘Sure you do. You a cop?
‘Was.’
Ben moved along the back row of seats and dropped into a cool leather chair. The usher came up behind him and bent down. He could smell perfume and knew instantly what it was. It reminded him of a very torrid affair almost 30 years ago.
‘What do you want lady?’
‘What do you need Mister?’
Ben turned and looked at the white face close to his. ‘You’re a lovely girl. Now leave me alone.’
The usher vanished into the darkness at the rear of the cinema.
The lights slowly dimmed. The screen burst alive with advertisements for mouth wash and the most affordable car in the world.
The curtains widened for cinemascope and the opening credits.
Brenda Grant dominated the opening scene. The camera panned up from the sparkling blue Caribbean ocean to a blindingly white yacht with Brenda standing at the prow. Her skin was tanned and glowing with oils. A brief white bikini clung tightly to her curves.
Ben looked around to see if the usher was watching him. She was gone.
Brenda’s long blond hair cascaded around her face, occasionally blown back by the ocean breeze. Ben let his eyes soak up everything about this woman. He was thrilled by her amazing beauty, larger than life on the big screen. He was saddened at the same time that he knew he could never even get close to someone like that. He listened to her soft deep voice as she gave instructions to the Captain as to their course home. She had such confidence about her. She addressed the yacht Captain with respect and authority. It was an amazing mix. There was magic in every move she made. Ben was spellbound.
The story unfolded.
Ben forgot about the Police Force. He forgot about Fay and their difficult domestic problems. He forgot about the death and misery he had experienced for years as a Detective on the streets of Sydney. He forgot about the white faced usher. He entered willingly into a world of make believe and hoped it would never end.
Ben resented the crowd as he walked onto George Street. He looked back at the Cinema complex and realised how depressing it appeared after basking in imagination and the larger than life impact of Brenda on the big screen. His large, empty pancake holster was attracting more attention than was comfortable so he moved quickly in the direction of the CIB.
Building shadows lengthened as the sun plunged towards the horizon. The air felt cooler as he caught the lift to the basement car park. His air conditioning hadn’t worked for years but he wound down all the windows and drove up the winding ramps onto the street.
It was just after 7 pm when he drove into his driveway. The old Roseville home had seen better days. White paint peeled from window shutters and he was going to get around to replacing that cracked glass panel in the front door. The garage door was closed and he didn’t know if Fay was home. He unlocked the front door and entered the cool, dark foyer. The place was silent. Fay couldn’t be home. She always had music blaring.
Ben had no idea where his wife might be. He pulled a mobile phone from his trouser pocket and realised that it had been switched off all day. He turned on the phone and put it on a side board while he poured a very stiff scotch.
A text message beeped on his phone. It was from Fay. WON’T BE HOME TONIGHT. OUT WITH ASHLEY. MIGHT SEE YOU TOMORROW. FAY.
Ben dropped the phone on the kitchen sideboard and opened the refrigerator. There was little on the shelves. Half a lettuce and a tomato together with a few opened bottles of jam, some olives and a small bowl of limes. One opened can of dry ginger ale. No milk or butter. The freezer wasn’t much better. He found one small lamb chop, slightly shrivelled, half a loaf of frozen bread and an out of date packet of fish fingers.
Ben took out the chop, emptied the fish fingers from the packet and dropped the lot in a pan. He poured a smell of dry into the scotch, swallowed it in a few gulps and turned on the stove element. He put the pan on the heat.
Number two scotch and dry disappeared down his throat in a similar manner. He poured a third. This one was straight scotch as the can of dry was empty. The ice trays in the freezer were also empty.
Ben felt the warmth of the scotch spread quickly through his body, dulling the tension and relaxing the muscles of his face. He sat at the kitchen table and sipped the amber liquid. The house was deathly quiet. A clock ticked slowly in the lounge room.
A burning smell pervaded his nostrils and by the time he had jumped up and retrieved the pan from the stove top, one side of the chop and all the fish fingers were giving off grey smoke. He ran a little water over them and the hot pan sent plumes of steam upward. The smoke alarm began to scream. Ben dropped the pan back on the stove top and began to wave his hands at the smoke alarm. Finally it became silent. The chop and fish fingers bubbled in the water. They looked dreadful but he hadn’t eaten lunch and was starving. Black and soggy, he laced the meal with tomato sauce and ate, washing it down with the remainder of the scotch.
‘You’re drunk Detective Hood.’ He said to himself. ‘I mean ex Detective Hood, that’s what I mean, but what the hell. I’ve got one shot of scotch left and then some port in the lounge.’ The sound of his voice seemed somehow comforting in the dark, quiet house. He emptied the last of the contents of the scotch bottle into his glass and sipped it as he walked somewhat unsteadily into the lounge room. He turned on a lamp at his desk in a corner. The study was currently being used by Fay as a ‘design studio’ where she painted and sewed and performed other acts of ‘art’ that Ben wasn’t even remotely interested in. His desk and computer had been moved into the lounge area; not that he ever used it much.
He sipped more scotch and turned on the computer. It was an ancient thing; the subject of constant ridicule by Fay. In comparison, she had a tiny laptop which ran 20 times faster and presented in designer silver.
Internet access typically took around 3 minutes. Ben waited patiently. He had nothing else to do. He drained the scotch and searched for the port bottle. It was in a cabinet nearby and he poured the ruby liquid straight into his empty scotch glass. It tasted good. Smooth and sweet.
He had some trouble getting his eyes to focus on the computer screen and even more getting Google to load. Typing in ‘Brenda Grant’ took a mammoth effort but finally her web page appeared. She looked so amazingly beautiful, he was overwhelmed.
A tiny voice in the back of Ben’s head told him to turn the computer off and go to bed. He ignored it. He clicked on ‘contact Brenda’. The voice in his head got a bit louder but two mouthfuls of port silenced it.
Focusing on the keyboard presented yet another obstacle but once mastered to some extent, Ben slowly typed:-
Dear Mis Grant. My name is Ben Hood. You don’t know me. I am a great fan and I watched one of your pictures today here in Sydney, Australia where I live. I used to work here as a cop but I sort of got sacked today becasause I shot some people. They needed shooing by the way because they were bad. I really enjoyed watching your picture. I’ve fo4gotten the name but you were beautiful and stunning. I’m married but Fay hates me. Jamaka Blue I think was the name of your film…..no Relative Heat or something. It’s playing in Sydney just now but the vampires are in and you are out so I’m told, but you have potential. You don’t have to convince me about your potentnail. I think you are wonderful. I had a photo of you in a frame on my desk at the Police Squad room but they kept doing stuff to your teeth with black texta. I’m just a little drunk right now so forgive me. I over boiled a chop and some fish fingers and the fire alarm went off. We will never meet of course but I wanted to write to you. There must be a side to you that we don’t see in your pictures. Things people like me will never see. Perhaps sad things. There is lots of sad stuff happening with people.
Ben stopped typing and sipped more port.
I hope you have a happy life. You look very happy. You must have good people around you, taking care of you. Watching your movies is good for me but they only go for an hour or so and then you have to do other things. Now that I’ve got no job I’ve got to try and do something else because they don’t like me shooting people. I don’t mean to shoot people. It just happens.
Ben’s focus was almost totally gone. He was going to type more but knew it was impossible. He hit the send button and the message disappeared.
That’s when he fell off the chair and passed out on the deep pile carpet.
“****”
Chapter Four
‘Michael. Would you mind just coming over here for a second?’
‘OK Mr. Shaw.’
Michael walked out of the range of the soft lighting and approached the elderly bald man sitting in a collapsible chair in the darkness, just off set. Michael was starting to tremble and with just cause.
‘And the rest of you,’ said Mr. Stewart Shaw, slowly, ‘take five…. especially you Brenda my dear. In your case, take ten. I want to speak with you later.’
Stewart Shaw had been directing films for almost 20 years. Some more recently, starring Brenda Grant, had done remarkably well and made him very wealthy. Others were a failure. His home was New York. He hated Los Angles where he was forced to work. He hated the heat. He hated the people. He hated producers and he hated actors, especially those from California. He was in his early 50’s but looked more mid 60’s. His skin was reddened from accidental exposure to the sun. The cargo pants he wore were too big and his collection of Hawaiian shirts was the source of much amusement among the film crew.
‘Michael. You work the dolly, is that right?’
‘Yes sir. I pull the dolly.’
‘Are you an experienced dolly puller, as I was led to believe when we started this film?’
Michael hesitated for a moment. ‘Um…I can pull a dolly sir.’
‘OK, you can pull a dolly. Do you know what the dolly is for Michael?’
‘It run on tracks and the camera sits on it.’
‘Yes, and do you know why the camera sits on a dolly that sits on tracks?’
‘Er… to move it?’
‘Not only move it Michael, but to move it smoothly and at the appropriate speed. We don’t want the cinema goers to know the camera is moving because we want them, in this case, to concentrate on Brenda.’
‘Well they won’t have trouble doing that boss. She’s not wearing much.’
‘Michael.’ Stewart Shaw sat back in his collapsible chair and locked his fingers behind his head. ‘Brenda is walking from her lover’s bedroom to his library.’
‘Yes, they told me that.’
‘Good. Now concentrate. It’s the middle of the night and she has exhausted him and now she is going to steal something from his library, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s very still and very quiet,’
‘Yes.’
‘And she is walking slowly and cautiously because she doesn’t want to wake him up, even though he is an old guy, right?
‘I guess so.’
Stewart Shaw moved his head from side to side in an attempt to relieve the tension pain. ‘Then why in God’s name are you attempting to race her to the library?’
‘Race her?’
‘She had to run to keep up with you Mr. Dolly puller! She sets the pace, not you! Get out of my sight!’ Stewart Shaw was now yelling. Michael fled.
‘ELIZABETH….!
The set was deserted.
‘ELIZABETH, get out here now!’ Mr. Shaw was sweating and rubbing his temples.
A tall, very well structured woman in her early 40’s emerged from the darkness and approached the Director. Elizabeth Rose had long black hair tied back in a pony tail. Her fringe wisped over her forehead, almost hiding deep blue eyes. She strode confidently across the darkened set and stood before Shaw. He looked up at her, suddenly unnerved. ‘Where’s Brenda?’
‘You told her to get off the set so she got off the set.’
‘I told her to hang around. I need to speak with her.’
‘She’s gone out somewhere.’
‘What!.’
‘Out somewhere.’
‘Where the hell Elizabeth?’
‘I don’t know. She just took off.’
Stewart Shaw stood up and put his face as close to Elizabeth’s as he could. In this case it failed and he succeeded only in bringing his eyes level with her extremely large breasts barely contained in a cream coloured shirt with dragons embroidered on each side of the collar.
‘Where?’
‘How should I know? I’m not her keeper.’
‘Yes you damn well are. That’s what we pay you for.’
‘She’ll be back in the morning. You’ve got the crew in a bundle of nerves anyway so let’s just call it a day.’
The director slumped back into his chair and put his head in his hands. ‘This is turning into a nightmare. We haven’t even done the location shoot yet and the entire bloody project is falling apart.’
‘Perhaps you should tell us where this fabulous location shoot is and we’d be a bit more interested.’
‘No. I say no and the producers say no. We’re not leaking this project all over America.’
Elizabeth put her hands on her hips. ‘This is not that kind of film Stewart.’
‘And you would know right?’
Elizabeth was quiet for a while. She turned and walked a few paces away. ‘She’s not handling things all that well just now. Cut her some slack Stewart.’
‘I’ll cut her right out of the damn picture if she’s not on this set at 6am tomorrow. You got that!’
‘Without her, you’ve got no picture. You got that?’
Elizabeth turned and the two stared at each other. ‘Tits and arse Elizabeth. That’s all.’
‘You’re a dead shit Stewart.’ Elizabeth walked out of the studio.
“****”
Chapter Five
‘Good Lord, look at you?’
Ben lifted his head from the carpet and tried to sit up.
‘Dead drunk again last night. You’re disgusting.’
Ben turned over and sat up. He tried to focus his bloodshot eyes on Fay but it didn’t work so he shut them. ‘I got sort of fired.’
‘What do you mean, sort of fired? You’re either fired or not.’
Ben rubbed his eyes through closed eyelids. He felt pain throbbing through his temples. ‘I’m sort of suspended for a while over the last shooting.’
‘And who is going to pay the bills now?’
‘I’m on full pay I think.’
‘You’re hopeless Ben. Look what you’ve turned into?’
‘I haven’t turned into anything. I didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘You’re washed up as a cop and a husband. You must be doing everything wrong.’
‘And you’re Miss Perfect I suppose?’
Fay turned and stomped out of the lounge room. She took the stairs two at a time and slammed the master bedroom door. Ben pushed himself up from the floor and slumped into his desk chair. His mind was numb. His mouth tasted dry, salty and his tongue was sore where he had bitten it as he fell.
The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains. Heat was already building as yet another summer day formed. Ben was troubled. He couldn’t work out why but something was bothering him deep down. It wasn’t that he had fallen down drunk. He’d done that before, and recovered. It was something else. He looked around the room and his eyes stopped at the computer screen. The system had hibernated. That meant he hadn’t closed down in the normal manner.
A dread crept through his chest as recall tried to kick in. He had typed and sent an email. How many times had he warned himself never to send emails when he had been drinking? Same with text messages. Emails, text messages and alcohol were usually always a bad combination and last night he had consumed a great deal of alcohol.
He re booted the computer and opened Outlook. His worst fears were realised as a copy of his email to Brenda Grant’s web site appeared in the ‘sent’ tray. His hands trembled as he read the text. He deleted the email from the sent tray and also the deleted items tray. He turned the computer off and got to his feet. He felt sick and unsteady.
Ben looked at his watch. It was 8.34 am. He stumbled through the kitchen to the spare bathroom at the rear of the house, undressed and stood in front of the mirror. He was unshaven and smelt of alcohol and body odour. The warm blast of shower water felt amazing on his skin and he stood under the downpour for a long time.
Fay was gone as he entered the master bedroom. A towel was wrapped around his hips. He shaved, brushed his teeth and dressed casually. Now he felt more like facing the world but only marginally.
Fay hadn’t left a message but she was obviously gone. He didn’t care; in fact he wouldn’t have cared if he never saw her again. That troubled him also because he had loved her so much.
Ben was hungry. The kitchen presented little hope of physical satisfaction but ‘Maccas’ was nearby. He retrieved his mobile phone and car keys from the kitchen sideboard, walked outside and locked the front door.
McDonald’s was packed but he ordered a tray full of bacon and egg muffins with a large hot coffee and three orders of hash browns. An old man vacated a tiny corner table and Ben quickly took his place. He ate quickly and gratefully.
Later he took out the mobile phone and thumbed through the contacts list. Akira Misaki appeared and he pressed the call button.
‘Yes.’
‘Aka?’
‘Ben?’
‘You kept my number.’
‘No, I forgot to delete it.’
‘Nice.’
‘What do you want Ben?’
‘A talk.’
‘About what?’
‘I want to train again.’
Laughter rang in Ben’s ear. ‘Train to do what?’
‘I need to get back into condition Aka.’
‘You were one of the best I had and you pissed it away. What’s your problem this time?’
‘I got suspended yesterday. I need to get back into condition.’
‘Go to Pete’s gym. He’ll take care of you.’
‘I don’t want Pete’s gym. I need to get back the power.’
‘The spiritual power?’
‘Perhaps that too. Will you see me?’
‘You only ever got half if it Ben. You learned the moves but you lacked the Zen.’
‘I’m not a Buddhist.’
‘You don’t have to be a damn Buddhist you idiot. You never really got it, did you?’
‘Look Aka. I need help?’
Silence.
‘You there?’
‘OK. Get over here at Noon and I’ll have a look at what a mess you’ve made of yourself since I last saw you.’
‘Thanks Aka.’
‘You been shooting people again I hear.’
‘No choice.’
‘You know Karate. You got a choice.’
‘I guess I got a bit lazy, but Karate won’t stop bullets and knives.’
‘Perhaps not bullets unless you’re close, but it will stop knives. You know that. See you at noon.’
The call was terminated. Ben put the phone back in his pocket and sipped his coffee.
“****”
Chapter Six
‘OK people. Some quiet please.’ Stewart Shaw sat back in his chair and surveyed the set. ‘Welcome back Brenda.’
Brenda Grant stretched back on the huge circular bed and pulled the white satin sheet tighter around her breasts. She looked perfectly relaxed but her teeth were gritted. Her long blond hair cascaded around tanned shoulders in ringlets and her bright hazel eyes flashed a warning at the director which he obviously missed or chose to do so. She said nothing.
A large man with extremely bushy grey hair smothering his chest lay beside her. He was wearing only boxer shorts. Bright red with yellow smiley faces dotted throughout. He was in his late 70’s, almost bald with dark eyebrows and a prominent hook nose. His eyelids were closed but that was because he had been threatened with something akin to death by Stewart if he opened them.
‘Mr. Boom,’ said Stewart. ‘You put that mike into the shot once more and you are out of a job. Understand?’
‘Yes sir,’ mumbled the boom operator.
‘And Mr. Dolly puller. This is not a race between you and Brenda.’
‘No Mr. Shaw.’
‘Move in camera.’ Shaw watched the video screen as the large blimp shielded movie camera craned down towards Brenda. ‘Now I want action,’ said Shaw. ‘Drop that lighting to midnight interior.’
The studio lights dimmed.
‘Rolling,’ said the camera operator.
Brenda stretched out on the huge bed in a slow, sensual movement, her arms behind her on the pillows. All eyes were drawn to her. She rolled onto her side and faced the camera which was slowly craning down and moving in. She pushed herself into a sitting position with one arm, giving a glance back at the supposedly sleeping elderly man next to her. The satin sheet slipped away revealing large, perfectly formed naked breasts. The boom operator experienced a moment of weakness and the mike appeared in front of the camera.
Stewart Shaw sat forward with his head in his hands. The camera operator didn’t need to be ordered to stop filming. The set was deadly silent.
Shaw sat back and fixed his eyes on Brenda. She sat defiantly on the bed, making no effort to cover her nakedness. The boom operator moved the mike well out of shot and tensed himself for the onslaught. The elderly male actor kept his eyelids firmly closed but they were twitching slightly.
‘Brenda dear. You have read the script I gather?’
Brenda nodded slowly.
‘And you know what you had to do in this particular scene?’
Again Brenda nodded.
‘So the thing with the breasts. Where did that come from? Is that in the script?’
Brenda Grant pulled the sheet around her body and got off the bed. She fixed her stunning eyes on the director. ‘You got something against my tits Stewart? They’ve made you a lot of money in the past.’
Stewart Shaw flew out of his chair like a demented banshee and rushed onto the bedroom set. He looked up at Brenda and screamed, ‘You follow the damn script! If I had wanted your boobs in this shot I would have put them in the shot. I run this bloody show, not you.’
Brenda’s eyes flashed with anger and she moved close to the diminutive director. Shaw took a step back. ‘You are a pathetic little man Stewart. I’ve worked my arse of for you on 3 pictures now. I’ve put up with your moods and your closet gay ranting.’
‘Closet gay! What do you mean by that?’ Stewart was screaming. ‘I resent that remark you bitch.’
‘Then go make the picture with someone else. I quit.’
‘You can’t quit. You’ve got a contract. Who do you think you are?’
Brenda moved closer to the director and he took a further step back. ‘Someone who could whip your bony arse with one hand if I had to.’ Brenda dropped the sheet and strode off the set totally naked. Mouths dropped open including Stewart’s. The elderly man got off the bed and scurried off set.
Brenda walked to her dressing room. Elizabeth was waiting at the door with a dressing gown. Brenda slipped it on, moved to the bed and sat down. Elizabeth closed and locked the door.
The two women looked at each other for a second. Elizabeth said, ‘I’ll make you a coffee.’
‘Like hell. I need a drink.’
‘You shouldn’t drink when you’re angry babe.’
‘Then I’ll get it myself.’
‘OK. OK.’ Elizabeth walked to the bar fridge and dropped ice in a glass. She poured a healthy nip of very good scotch and put the bottle back on a shelf. ‘You sip this slowly.’
‘Don’t Mother me Liz. Did you hear what that bastard said to me?’
Elizabeth handed the glass of scotch to Brenda. ‘Everyone in the hanger heard it. He was out of line. You two were obviously not meant for each other.’
Brenda took a mouthful of scotch.
‘Slow down damn you.’
‘I’m not going back on. He can find someone else.’
Elizabeth twirled her black pony tail with a finger and sat down in a chair facing the bed. ‘Think it over Brenda. It’s worth money to keep going. They aren’t exactly breaking the door down to get to you this year.’
‘That will change. I’ve still got it.’
‘I know you’ve still got it and so do millions of fans out there, mostly male.’
‘Mostly creeps like Stewart.’
‘I don’t think so darling. You even got an email this morning from a cop in Sydney, Australia. I don’t think he’s a creep. Perhaps a bit drunk, but not creepy if you know what I mean.’
Brenda put her drink on the bedside table. ‘What’s he say?’
‘I printed it out.’ Elizabeth went to the computer desk and picked up a single page. She handed it to Brenda. She read Ben’s email slowly, folded it neatly in half and put it on the bedside table.
‘Cute. Touching. He’s pissed.’
‘He’s telling you how he feels and he’s not crude like most of the others.’
‘True.’
‘So perhaps this is one you can reply to with a photo and a best wishes line. You can’t ignore them all.’
‘Wanna bet?’
‘OK. So let’s call it a day. I’ll take you to the beach and we’ll have ice cream and hot dogs.’
‘I think I should go see Joe.’
‘You don’t need a shrink. He charges too much anyway.’
‘He’s good for me.’
‘So is ice cream and hot dogs.’
Brenda laughed and drained the last of her scotch. ‘You’ve got a point. Let’s go.’
“****”
Chapter Seven
At 3 minutes past noon, Ben Hood climbed old wooden stairs onto the shady verandah of a 1940’s colonial style home in the leafy suburb of Eastwood, near Sydney. A white cat stretched out on a window ledge to the right of the huge knotted pine front door.
Wind chimes tinkled softly. Japanese symbols carved in black timber hung from the brick walls. Ben used to know what each of them meant but it was a long time since he had visited Akira Misaki’s home. He couldn’t remember what they meant any more.
Ben pushed the button beside the door and then settled in for a wait. He knew Aka and his household moved at a pace less hurried than the average Australian suburban family. A full minute later the huge timber door swung open slowly and a stunningly beautiful and extremely petite Japanese girl stood before him. He assumed it was a child but as she spoke and he had time to take in her body shape and facial features, he realised it was a woman.
‘You are Ben?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr. Misaki is expecting you sir.’ She stood aside and Ben entered the cool, darkened foyer of the home. Familiar incense aromas instantly accosted his senses. He automatically took off his shoes and placed them in a rack with others neatly lined up, as he had done so many times in the past. The woman indicated slippers nearby with a slender hand. Ben put them on and followed the tiny woman down a darkened hallway into a huge open kitchen. Each wall was tiled from ceiling to floor, including the floor, in white porcelain. The cupboards and benches were dark walnut and the kitchen accessories were stainless steel.
Akira Misaki entered the room from a doorway opposite. Ben hadn’t seen him in over 2 years but the Korean hadn’t changed. He was now in his mid 60’s, totally bald, solid build and looked extremely fit. He was shorter than Ben by a bare inch. His hands and knuckles were huge and battle scarred. The two men approached each other. Akira nodded slightly to Ben but kept his dark brown eyes fixed on him. ‘Uh suh oh seh yoh.’ (Welcome)
Ben bowed deeply as a sign of respect and looked downward. ‘Ahn nyoung ha seh yoh.’ (Formal greeting)
‘You look like shit.’
Ben straightened up. ‘You haven’t changed Aka.’
‘I work out. What the hell have you been doing?’
‘I don’t get time to work out. Cop work is busy stuff. The streets are a mess.’
‘That’s because you treat them with kid gloves.’
‘I don’t.’
Akira held out his right hand to Ben and the two men shook hands firmly. Ben knew that his friend could crush every bone in his hand should he chose. ‘You shoot too many of them. Should use your hands and feet more like I taught you.’
‘You can’t do that all the time. These bastards carry guns.’
‘And the guy with the machete I read about?’
‘I’m not quick enough any more. I don’t like machetes. Too long and too sharp.’
‘Not for me.’
‘You practice in your sleep Aka.’
‘No, I relax in my sleep. I’m at peace.’
‘Good for you.’
‘You want some green tea?’
‘I hate that shit. You know that.’
‘Good, then we’ll have some. Bell…!’
The tiny Japanese woman glided into the room and stood beside Akira.
‘I’d like you to meet Bell. Her full name in Japanese is Bluebell but we like to keep it short. Bell, this is Ben. You have heard me speak of him.’
Bell bowed and Ben automatically bowed as well. ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Ben.
‘And you. I’ll bring green tea. You two run along.’
Akira raised an eyebrow in Ben’s direction and beckoned him to follow. The two walked through another short corridor and out onto a large sunlit patio. Akira waved Ben towards a padded chair and both sat opposite each other with a rough hewn handmade timber bench between them.
‘Fay?’
‘Don’t ask. It’s in the final stage of collapse.’
‘Too bad.’
‘Yeah, and the Japanese lady?’
‘I’m multicultural.’
‘I’ll say. Last time I was here you were with a Pom and you’d just kicked out an American.’
‘I met Bell in America on the last fight tour.’
‘You win?’
Akira frowned and fixed his eyes on Ben.
‘Sorry, dumb question.’
‘OK, what do you want?’
‘I need to get back into some sort of shape. I’ve been drinking too much and not exercising and I feel like shit.’
‘Well that’s obvious, but what do you intend to do with any level of fitness I can help you achieve?’
‘What sort of a question is that?’
‘Do you want to get fit just to get fit?’
‘Uh Oh….I feel a lecture coming on.’
‘I teach a special kind of Karate Mr. Hood and it’s not just about breaking noses.’
‘I know that.’
‘Look at you, all bunched up and tense. Everything I taught you is down the drain. Where’s the inner calming strength you used to have?’
‘I’m not into that Aka. You meditate for hours. I couldn’t do that to save my life.’
‘Then you may not be able to save your life one day.’
Bell moved silently to the bench and laid down a tray with a white china teapot and two small bowls. She poured the tea, set down the pot and left the room without a word.
‘You want a biscuit?’
Ben looked at his friend and burst out laughing. ‘You don’t eat biscuits.’
‘You’re the one who’s let things go.’
Ben set the small white bowl down on the bench and sat back. ‘OK, how do we start and what do you charge these days?’
Akira sipped slowly at his green tea with his eyes focused on Ben. ‘You still got your outfit?’
Ben shook his head. ‘Fay threw it out. She said I was never home because I was over hear dancing around with you and your Karate mates.’
Akira smiled. ‘I’ll get you another one…..with a white belt.’
‘Oh come on. You know I’m much better than that.’
‘We’ll see in time.’ Akira sipped his tea again. He placed the bowl on the timber bench, rose from the chair and walked to a wall cupboard near the door. He returned with a small grey box in his hand and resumed his chair. Considering the size of his fingers, he nimbly opened the box and took out a tiny, black, rectangular device with a belt clip. He opened the front of the device and tapped at it for some seconds. He snapped the lid closed and handed it across to Ben.
‘Step meter?’
‘Yep.’
‘I got heaps of them, mostly from you.’
‘Not like this one.’
‘What’s it cost?’
‘Wrong question.’
‘OK, what’s it do?’
‘Tells me the truth.’
‘Like?’
‘I didn’t need electronics to tell me if students sat at home and shook these things up and down. That showed in your performance. Now I don’t need to look at your performance. This gizmo tells me exactly how the steps were done. Walking, running, going up stairs, going down stairs, shaking the damn thing up and down by hand. You can’t re-set it. Only I do that. You try to touch anything and I’ll know and you fail and you’re out.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘See what I’m dealing with these days? Can’t trust anyone.’
‘What’s the goal and timeframe?’
‘I’ve had to up it a bit. The students were getting lazy. Now it’s 10 k’s a day for 3 weeks. You want that in miles?’
’10 k’s! That’s from here to Sydney!’
‘ You got anything better to do just now?’
‘3 weeks!.’
‘Then we focus again….and meditate.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘And then we look at your goals.’
Ben turned the step meter over in his hands and slowly clipped it to his belt. ‘I’ve kind of run out of goals.’
‘We’ll see my friend. See you in 3 weeks.’ Akira rose once again. The meeting was over.
“****”
Chapter Eight
‘He’s not dead.’ Joy Mackay opened her tattered handbag and retrieved a photo of her husband. She handed it across to the Police Inspector. Roy Tanner took the photo and examined it briefly. The Queensland Police Inspector rose and walked to the window. He watched the Port Douglas traffic crawl past in the street below.
‘We’ve searched everywhere Joy. You know that.’
‘Not everywhere.’
Inspector Tanner turned to face the elderly woman. ‘It’s a big ocean out there. His boat turned up wrecked on Woody Island. We’ve searched the island with a fine tooth comb and all the other low islands. The sea claimed him somehow.’
‘What about Skull Island?’
‘It’s private and the owner jealously guards his privacy. We were allowed to search it in company with his people and found nothing.’
‘I don’t trust him. There is something wrong out there.’
‘Joy, we’ve done all we can. He’s been missing for over three months now and the evidence points to misadventure at sea. He shouldn’t have been out there on his own anyway.’
‘Will you keep his photo posted in the town for a bit longer? Someone might have seen him.’
‘Alright, I’ll have his photo circulated again but we can’t go on and on with this.’
‘Thanks Roy.’ The elderly woman stood and zipped her bag closed. ‘I’ve never given up hope. Winston knew the ocean well. He respected her. He could read her moods better than anyone.’
‘I know that, but if he was alive, we would have found him by now.’
Joy Mackay walked to the door and opened it. ‘You’ll call if you hear anything?’
‘You know I will. You going OK up at the Point?’
‘I’m fine. Thanks.’ She walked through the Police Station, out past the front desk and into the street. The Far North Queensland heat in comparison to the air conditioned Police Station, stopped her for a second. She waited for a break in the traffic and crossed the road, heading towards the Marina Mirage car park.
Joy drove her somewhat battered Holden FE sedan out of town and turned north on the Captain Cook Highway. She stopped at Mossman and bought fruit from a road stall. A large brown sedan pulled up on the other side of the road, opposite the fruit stall. The windows were darkly tinted, but that would not attract unnecessary attention in this part of Australia, as most of the vehicles had tinted windows for sun protection. Joy glanced at the large vehicle but then went back to her shopping. She drove further north onto the Mossman Daintree road and to her home perched on the side of a heavily timbered hill, close to the Coral Sea at Rocky Point. She parked underneath the main deck of the house and gathered her bag and fruit.
Joy’s luxurious pole house had been built by her husband in the late 80’s. It commanded a stunning 120 degree view over the Coral Sea. As she climbed the stairs to the main deck area, she noticed the same large brown car drive slowly past, heading north. She could not make out the occupants because of the dark glass tint. She felt the car was travelling much too slowly than usual for that stretch of road and suspected the occupants must have been looking at her home. The car rounded a bend and was out of sight.
Joy opened the unlocked door and entered the huge lounge room. She moved through to the kitchen. All the floors in the house were polished timber and the kitchen cupboards and bench tops were constructed entirely from various types of timber, sourced locally by her husband. She put the bag of fruit on a bench and walked back into the lounge room. The Coral Sea glistened as it reflected a clear blue sky.
The large brown sedan moved slowly back into sight on the coastal road. This time it had Joy’s full attention. She tried to see the license plates but it drove out of sight behind a large palm grove. She waited. A full minute went by, then two, then three. The car did not appear again. She slumped back into one of the white leather lounge chairs.
‘I am not going to pieces,’ she said softly to herself. ‘I just wish Winston was here. I don’t want him to be dead.’ She put her head in her hands and wept.
“****”
Chapter Nine
Derek Disano was the producer of ‘Miami Affair’. He had not personally chosen Stewart Shaw to direct; in fact he hated Stewart with a passion. The financial backers wanted Shaw to direct as he had worked with Brenda Grant on other occasions. The money men also wanted the name of the movie kept secret and had threatened to terminate Disano’s contract if he revealed it to anyone. Of the film crew, only he and Shaw knew what this movie was about and where it was to be shot. He had no idea why all the secrecy but suspected it to be a publicity stunt.
It was no secret that the director and his star fought constantly. She had never walked out on him before. Now she had. Negotiations had failed miserably. Shooting with another star of Brenda’s quality was a fairly remote option as the money people specifically wanted her.
Stewart Shaw was paid off and took a holiday in Europe. He was promised another film within a year. Nothing was put in writing.
Disano took the unprecedented gamble of appointing female director, Sandra Quinn to continue with the film. The money men were well aware of this Japanese/American director, but wary of her independent style and aggressive attitude. They tried to convince Disano that Brenda would never work with her and that the two would fight more than in the previous relationship. Disano won.
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