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Ava seemed to glow in the murky atmosphere. In between items from a song-and-dance man and a threesome of black girls who did impersonations of the Supremes, Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson, Ava danced and drank. She danced several times with Dunlop whose skills were minimal and with other men who cut in or approached their table to request the pleasure. Eventually Ava's choice settled on a tall, lean American who could rumba.She picked up her Benson & Hedges and lighter from the table where Dunlop was sitting morosely with a light beer.
    'He's the one,' Ava said. 'His name's Kent and he's in Room 21 of the Malibu wing.'
    'Did you remember your name?'
    'Sure.'
    'Take him to your room, but give me twenty minutes. What did you tell him about me?'
    'I told him you were my brother.'
    Dunlop picked locks better than he danced. He entered Room 21 and did a quick search through the possessions of Kenworthy Bushmill of Santa Monica, California. Bushmill was thirty-six, a vice-president of Big Cats Pty Ltd, a firm that manufactured giant catamarans. He was in Australia to consult with the receivers of three tourist operators who had gone broke, owing Big Cats several million dollars. He was married to Sandra and they had two children, Kenworthy II and Louella. There were three missing from a packet of ten Silver Bullet lubricated condoms.
    'Fancies himself,' Dunlop said.
    He stood in the shadows and watched Bushmill leave the cabaret with Ava. His hand caressed her bare shoulders. Dunlop noticed that he did not wear a wedding ring. He couldn't remember whether Ava did or not and made a mental note to check. He followed them at a discreet distance down the covered walkway leading to the paths that ran around the 'lagoons'. They came to the point where Malibu was in one direction and Caribbean in another. Bushmill turned in the direction of his room but Ava hauled him back. She kissed him andput her hand between his legs. They headed for the Caribbean wing. Dunlop saw them inside Ava's room and went to his own. He listened at the adjoining door long enough to determine that things were taking the expected course.
    'I hope three's enough,' he said.
    He showered to get the smell of smoke out of his hair and off his skin, brushed his teeth, set his watch alarm for six a.m. and went to bed.
    Vance Belfante considered that he had come up the hard way and had had more than his share of bad luck.
    'Wogs for parents,' he used to say. 'Real peasants. And when I was playing pro soccer there was no fuckin' money in it.'
    Neither of these claims was true. His father was from the north of Italy and his mother from a town which had passed from Italian to Yugoslav control after the Second World War. Mario Belfante was a pastrycook and a good one. His skills were in demand in Australia and after several years of long, hard work for others he opened his own business and prospered. Renata Belfante had been a champion schoolgirl athlete before the war disrupted her life. Her ability was passed on to all four of her children, but most notably to Vance who was an outstanding sprinter and soccer player at St Patrick's College in Strathfield.
    Vance completed four years at St Patrick's with reasonable academic success, but dropped out when the serious work for the Leaving Certificate proved too much for him. He played several seasonswith Leichhardt, sometimes in first division but more often in the second. While it was true that big money had not yet arrived in Australian soccer, this was not the reason for Vance's failure to win fame and fortune. The reasons were booze, women and gambling. The booze sapped his skills and fitness, caused him to miss training and slide down the club list. His job in a city sports store went when he was dropped from the club. Women had attracted a lot of his attention and, along with cards and punting, consumed most of his money. Vance drifted into the late-night, early-morning world of gambling clubs, drug pushing and