Free Act of Evil by Ron Chudley Page B

concern, or such-and-such initiative, but little of it made much sense to Hal. Just one thing was clear: whatever Vince did involved a lot of money and probably a good deal of power. In this pond, and likely well beyond, Vince Smithson was a very big fish indeed.
    After chatting a while and having been recognized by several people—the rich were as fascinated by showbiz as anyone—Hal once more felt Vince’s hand on his arm. He was led away from the throng, out onto a side balcony. When they were alone, Vince said, “God, that’s better. Sometimes these circuses of mine depress the hell out of me.”
    Hal laughed. “Really? Seemed like you were having a ball. All those fat cats eating out of your hand.”
    The small man grinned, “Yeah—well—you know, I’ve always liked to run the show, and I guess I’m good at it. But—I dunno—meeting you after all this time . . . It’s got to be thirty years, right?”
    â€œThat’s what I figured.”
    â€œIt made me realize just how quick the time passes. Suddenly, for a minute there, I actually got to feeling old.”
    Hal looked out into the night, where the stars and the far-off city formed a continuous pattern of light. “My guess is that ‘old’ for you is how most people feel on their best day. Doesn’t seem like you’ve slowed down one bit since school. But—tell me . . .”
    â€œWhat, buddy?”
    â€œYou’re obviously well off, with a lot of influential friends who seem to hang on your every word. So—I’ve been trying to figure—just what is that you do. ”
    â€œNot living here any more, I guess you would wonder that. Okay—come on, I’ll show you.”
    Vince led the way to the opposite end of the balcony, where there was another door. He entered and a light went on, revealing a medium sized room. Hal followed inside as Vince put on more lights. There was a desk, a sofa, a couple of easy chairs, and two walls lined with books and file cabinets. Evidently Vince’s study, the place actually smelled rich: wood, leather, and cigar smoke. Not a sound of the party made it through the paneled walls. The single window had curtains, which Vince carefully closed. He went to the desk and from a drawer produced a bag of white powder, a portion of which he expertly arranged in two lines on the desktop. Producing a straw, he inhaled a quantity into each nostril, following this with a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction.
    Hal gave an astonished laugh. “ This is what you do? You’re a drug dealer?”
    Vince broke from his moment of bliss to stare. “What? Drug dealer? Fuck no! Man, you can’t be serious! This is strictly recreation! Speaking of which . . .” He indicated the cocaine. “Y’wanna bite?”
    â€œAh—no, thanks. Bad for the voice, I’ve found.”
    â€œYeah, right!” Vince grinned. “Still old Holy Hal, eh? Seems I never could tempt you into anything. Okay, more power to you, bud. But the reason I closed the curtains wasn’t this.” He put the bag away and crossed the room to the bookshelf, pulling out a map that came down like a blind. “It was this! ”
    â€œThis” was a large scale rendition of Victoria and surrounding suburbs. Apart from the size, the only thing unusual was a number of blocks of color: red, blue, and yellow, sprinkled over the map like confetti. “You see,” Vince said, making no attempt to keep the pride from his voice, “red areas are projects completed, blue are work in progress, and yellow are ones I’m negotiating, or have my eye on. A lot of assholes—competitors and speculators—would give anything to know about those little yellow babies, and some of them are right here in this house . . . which is the reason for the secrecy.”
    â€œI see . . . but projects