“My name’s Brian Sinclair. I was on Channel Nine television for a couple of years. As a current affairs journalist. I’m taking a hiatus now.”

“Well so what?”

“Beer?” he asked.

“Thanks.”

He went to the bar and fetched me a beer and I was swept up in a sort of panic, dazzled by his silver hair and matching suit. I had to remind myself that he needed my help, and that put me in a position of power which I was free to abuse at any given time.

“Did you see the game last night?” I asked when he returned.

“No. What game?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what game- I was just making conversation. And he had to ask what game? Who cares what game? Any game. There’s always a game.

“So what can I do for you?” I asked.

“Well, Jasper, as I said, I used to be a current affairs journalist for Channel Nine. And I was fired.”

“What for?”

“Are you sure you don’t know about this? It was big news for a while. I was interviewing a twenty-six-year-old father of two who was not only not meeting his child-support payments but living off the dole so he could maintain his obsession with daytime television. I was just asking him a few simple questions, and right in the middle of the interview-”

“He pulled out a gun and shot himself.”

“Hey- I thought you didn’t watch television.”

“It’s the only way it could have gone down,” I said, although the truth was, I do sometimes watch television and I suddenly recalled seeing a repeat of that suicide in slow motion. “This is all very interesting,” I said, “but what’s it got to do with me?”

“Well, if I had a news story that no one else had, that could make me a valuable commodity again.”

“And?”

“And your father has never given an extensive interview about his brother.”

“Jesus.”

“If I could get the inside scoop on the Terry Dean story-”

“What are you doing now? Are you working?”

“In telesales.”

Ouch. “That’s a job as good as any other, isn’t it?”

“I’m a journalist, Jasper.”

“Listen, Brian. If there’s one thing my father doesn’t want to talk about, it’s his brother.”

“But can’t you-”

“No. I can’t.”

Brian suddenly looked as though life had worn him down, literally, with an enormous nail file. “All right.” He sighed. “What about you? You probably know a few things about the story that the rest of us don’t.”

“Probably.”

“Would you agree to an interview?”

“Sorry.”

“Give me something. The Handbook of Crime.”

“What about it?”

“There’s a theory your uncle didn’t write it.”

“I really wouldn’t know,” I said, and watched his face tighten into a fist.

When I got home, Dad was curled up on the couch, reading and breathing heavily. Instead of saying “Hello, son, how’s life?” he held up the book he was reading: it was called A History of Consciousness. Instead of saying “Hi, Dad, I love you,” I sneered and started searching the bookshelf for something to read myself.

As I browsed, I could detect the sweet, sickly odor of clove cigarettes. Was Eddie here? I heard muffled voices from the kitchen. I opened the door to see Anouk and Eddie huddled together, speaking in low tones. They looked surprised to see me, and while Eddie hit me with one of his dazzling smiles, Anouk beckoned me over with one finger over her lips.

“I just got back from Thailand,” Eddie said in a whisper.

“I didn’t know you’d gone,” I whispered back.

He frowned unexpectedly- the frown surprised his own face.

“Jasper, I’ve got bad news,” Anouk said in a barely audible voice.

“Say it all at once.”

“Your dad’s depressed again.”

I looked through the door at Dad. Even when there were people in the house he still came across as a complete recluse.

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“He’s been crying. Staring into space. Talking to himself.”

“He always talks to himself.”

“Now he’s addressing himself formally as Mr. Dean.”

“Is that all?”

“You want a repeat of the last time? You want him to go back to the mental hospital?”

“The man’s depressed. What can we do?”

“I think it’s because his life is empty.”

“And?”

“And we need to help him fill it.”

“Not me,” I said.

“Jasper, you should talk to your father more,” Eddie said with surprising sternness.

“Not at this juncture,” I said, leaving the room.

My father’s depression could wait a couple of days. At present I was suddenly interested in having a look at The Handbook of Crime, by Terry Dean (Harry West). I figured that since my relationship with the Towering Inferno had begun with blackmail, maybe the book had some other relationship advice. I found it in a pile on the floor, in the middle of an unsteady igloo of printed word. With the book in hand, I wound through the labyrinth to my hut.

In bed, I flicked through the table of contents. Chapter 17 caught my eye. It was called “Love: The Ultimate Informer.” If there’s one thing a lawbreaker needs in his inventory, it’s secrets, and if there’s one enemy of secrets, it’s love, the chapter began.

The names of your informers, what backstabbing campaigns you’re embarking on, where you store your guns, your drugs, your money, the location of your hideout, the interchangeable lists of your friends and enemies, your contacts, the fences, your escape plans- all things you need to keep to yourself, and you will reveal every one if you are in love.

Love is the Ultimate Informer because of the conviction it inspires that your love is eternal and immutable- you can no more imagine the end of your love than you can imagine the end of your own head. And because love is nothing without intimacy, and intimacy is nothing without sharing, and sharing is nothing without honesty, you must inevitably spill the beans, every last bean, because dishonesty in intimacy is unworkable and will slowly poison your precious love.

When it ends- and it will end (even the most risk-embracing gambler wouldn’t touch those odds)- he or she, the love object, has your secrets. And can use them. And if the relationship ends acrimoniously, he or she will use them, viciously and maliciously- will use them against you.

Furthermore, it is highly probable that the secrets you reveal when your soul has all its clothes off will be the cause of the end of love. Your intimate revelations will be the flame that lights the fuse that ignites the dynamite that blows your love to kingdom come.

No, you say. She understands my violent ways. She understands that the end justifies the means.

Think about this. Being in love is a process of idealization. Now ask yourself, how long can a woman be expected to idealize a man who held his foot on the head of a drowning man? Not too long, believe me. And cold nights in front of the fire, when you get up and slice off another piece of cheese, you don’t think she’s dwelling on that moment of unflinching honesty when you revealed sawing off the feet of your enemy? Well, she is.

If a man could be counted on to dispose of his partner the moment the relationship is over, this chapter wouldn’t be necessary. But he can’t be counted on for that. Hope of reconciliation keeps many an ex alive who should be at the bottom of a deep gorge.

So, lawbreakers, whoever you are, you need to keep your secrets for your survival, to keep your enemies at bay and your body out of the justice system. Sadly- and this is the lonely responsibility we all have to accept- the only way to do this is to stay single. If you need sexual relief, go to a hooker. If you need an intimate embrace, go to your mother. If you need a bed warmer during cold winter months, get a dog that is not a Chihuahua or a Pekingese. But know this: to give up your secrets is to give up your security, your freedom, your life. The truth will kill your love, then it will kill you. It’s rotten, I know. But so is the sound of the judge’s gavel pounding a mahogany desk.