Peter Corris - The Washington Club

‘You’re all right? You’re not hurt?’

I shook my head. She reached out and took me by the arm, drew me inside. ‘It was on the TV news. They showed a picture of your car and I nearly died. Come and have a drink and tell me what happened.’

We went out onto the balcony where she had a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, ice, soda and low-calorie ginger ale. The air was still warm after a warm day but the light breeze was fresh. Good drinking conditions. I had a generous whack of the Scotch over ice while she had half my amount drowned in ginger ale. We sat, pointing ourselves towards the bridge. I told her about the grenades and how by good luck I’d managed to keep my arms and legs attached to the other bits.

‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Does that sort of thing happen to you often?’

‘No. And not lately. I’m not working on anything else important, Claudia, and I don’t have a backlog of desperate enemies. It has to be to do with you.’

She sipped her concoction. I realised how much I’d needed a drink when I saw that most of this one had gone. I swirled the ice cubes.

‘I suppose you feel you have a right to ask me anything now that you’ve risked your life for me?’

‘I wouldn’t put it like that.’ I reached for the bottle, poured myself a judicious measure and added a little soda water. ‘But I’ve done a little preliminary work and all I’ve come up with is questions, about you, about Wilson Katz, about Judith Daniels. I’ll be needing answers and you must have some of them.’

‘I’m sure I do. I’ll tell you everything I can, but can we go out for a while first? It’s been so long since I’ve done anything normal like going out for a meal.’

‘Of course we can and let’s keep it normal. I won’t ask any questions while we’re out.’

She stood up and plucked at a few of the hanging wisps, making them wispier. ‘That’s good, because you’re in for some surprises, Cliff.’

‘I like surprises,’ I said.

We went to the Malaya restaurant in North Sydney. Claudia said the other similar establishment in Broadway was one of her favourite places when she was a student and she wanted to try the north-of-the-harbour version. I’d been there once or twice and liked it well enough although South-East Asian food isn’t the delight to me that it is to some people. We sat on the mezzanine floor where we could look down at other diners and out a big window towards buildings where the lights were just beginning to show up as darkness spread over the city. Claudia had put on a white silk jacket over her dress. Now she slipped it off and arranged it carefully on the back of her chair so it wouldn’t crease too much. It looked like the gesture of a person used to taking care of her clothes rather than one who had so much money it didn’t matter.

‘I want short soup, prawn sambal and boiled rice,’ she said.

‘I bow to your expertise. What d’you want to drink?’

She shrugged. I noticed how smooth and shapely her shoulders were, not bony, not fleshy, just right. It’s rare to see perfect shoulders. ‘Doesn’t matter. Any dry white wine with mineral water to dilute it.’

‘Okay. I can remember when we used to order a couple of bottles just to save the waiter the trouble of coming over again. Now we have to think, what is it? Two standard drinks per hour or whatever?’

‘You can drink as much as you like. A couple of spritzers’ll do me. I can drive the Camry. I’m not sure about that Falcon of yours. Was it a manual?’

‘Yeah. It was.’

I put the. 38, which I’d oiled and cleaned, in the pocket of my jacket. I took the jacket off and hung it on my chair like Claudia. The lightweight harness I slid round further under my armpit. At a glance it wouldn’t look much different to a pair of rather unusual braces. Claudia watched but said nothing.

The drink waiter came and I ordered a bottle of Chardonnay and the mineral water. Claudia ordered the food and she added mixed vegetables. The wine arrived. Claudia gazed around the room and down below. She took her first drink and it seemed to relax her. She smiled, or maybe just relaxed her mouth and the forward thrusting teeth did the rest.

‘What are you looking at?’ she said sharply.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I broke up with the woman I’d been with for a few years not so long back. I was probably staring at you. It’s so good to have such attractive company.’

‘Thanks. I’m glad to be here with you, too. You’re holding together pretty well. You’re what-late forties?’

I nodded. ‘Fairly late.’

Peter Corris

CH19 — The Washington Club

‘Good bones,’ she said. ‘And hair. They’ll see you through.’

The food came in bowls and dishes and an insulated bucket along with chopsticks at which I’ve never been a master. We worked our way through it, communicating well it seemed to me, but talking about nothing in particular. About halfway through Claudia reached across the table and touched my arm. I’d rolled up my sleeves-the sambal was having an effect on the sweat glands.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s Malcolm Turnbull.’

It was. He arrived with a woman and another man and they fell into intense conversation, only briefly interrupted by the ordering of food and drink.

‘A republican cell without a doubt,’ I said. ‘I kicked in some money to that cause. They’re probably eating it right now.’

Claudia laughed. ‘So you’re a republican. Well, well.’

I was onto my third glass of wine and emboldened. ‘I bet you are too. Admit it.’

‘Of course I am. I…’

It wasn’t the wine or the food or the atmosphere. Her every movement-the deft use of the chopsticks, the curve of her wide mouth, the lift of her heavy eyebrows-was having an effect on me. ‘Claudia, why…?’

In one smooth movement she put her chopsticks down and placed her right index finger over the slightly raised scar that runs from the left side of my chin up to my lower lip, the result of an uppercut delivered with a split glove by Clem Carter at the state junior amateur boxing titles. ‘No questions,’ she said. ‘Not now. Questions later. Drink some mineral water and eat some vegetables. The sambal’s a mite too hot for you.’

I gripped her hand and felt that it had a film of sweat on it like mine. I grinned at her.

‘We’re both sweating and the place is air-conditioned.’

‘It’s good for us. Clears the toxins from the system.’

‘Do you believe that?’

She laughed. More wisps of hair escaped. I wanted to tuck them back, and to touch that down running to her jawline.

We left at least one standard drink in the bottle, maybe two. We walked through the courtyard in front of the restaurant and sauntered up the main street towards the all-night parking station where I’d left the car. The cool air cleared my head and after a few metres I was alert and watchful. Claudia, walking very close, occasionally brushing me with her shoulder or hip, could feel it in me. ‘What’s the matter, Cliff?’

‘Just being careful. We’ve had a few incidents, remember?’

‘Mm. I was trying to forget all about it. All of it. But I suppose that’s impossible.’

Tentatively, I put my arm around her and squeezed gently and briefly. ‘Stay where you are as long as you can. I’ll do the worrying.’

She reached around and patted my chest. ‘Where’s the gun?’

It was back in the holster, near my left armpit. ‘Where it belongs.’

‘Have you used it much?’

‘No. As seldom as possible.’

‘That’s good. I hate guns.’

‘Me too.’

We reached the car park. It was one of the few places still around where you handed in your ticket and an attendant fetched your car. That’s why I’d used it. The Camry came up the ramp and I forked over some more money. The outing would be paid for by Cy Sackville who would in turn charge it up to Claudia. It presented me with a nice conundrum of etiquette that Emily Post probably couldn’t help with. I had more serious things to worry about, like where was this evening headed and how would my feelings for this woman affect the job I was supposed to be doing for her?