Peter Corris - The January Zone

‘I see,’ January said quietly. ‘Well, that was quite a reception.’

‘I hear you had bombing,’ Spinoza said.

‘You think these things could be related?’ January sounded interested rather than alarmed. It was almost as if he was working out how to profit from the idea.

‘We’ll look at it. Cliff here and me. We’ve got most kinds of trouble here but not many bombers. I don’t really know why. You’d think this would be a good breeding ground.’

We were passing through a poor section of the city. The pavements were dirty and the rubbish overflowed into the gutters, or maybe it was flowing the other way. There were shops on the corners with boards and broken signs. I could see the scars of break and entry on doors to the shops and other buildings. Water cascaded from cracked, sagging guttering and the walls were covered with ripped, defaced posters advertising everything from soap to string quartet recitals. The people hurrying along the wet streets were mostly black. Groups of youths huddled in the doorways as if body heat was their only protection from the cold.

‘Christ,’ Gray said, ‘how far away’s the White House?’

Spinoza laughed. ‘Oh, just a few blocks.’

I looked down a side street as we slowed for a light. Rusting, burnt-out cars were parked bumper to bumper along both sides of the road for as far as I could see. In a couple of places they spilled over onto the pavement and there was even one wreck sitting high up on top of another. Spinoza saw me looking.

‘That’s the street where cars go to die. There’s some streets where you don’t walk around after dark but that’s a street where you don’t walk, ever!’

I heard Gary expel a long, harsh breath. January was silent. If he was anything at all like me he was experiencing the old-soldier feeling of moving into a battle zone. He’d also be needing a drink.

‘Would everyone in Washington know about those roadworks?’ I was wondering what was the right thing to do with my gum.

‘Could find out if anyone was specially interested in the routes and such. You’re thinking, I see.’ Spinoza turned and slowed down at an intersection. ‘We’ll be out of this stuff in a minute. Into the parks and bridges. Of course, folks sleep in the parks and under the bridges, but you can’t see ‘em from the road.’

‘You don’t sound like a government man,’ I said.

He drove for a while, then he wound down his window and dropped his gum out. I did the same.

He grinned. ‘Speaking my mind? That’s just my cover. Your journey’s end, folks. The Lincoln Hotel.’

I don’t spend a lot of time hanging around fancy hotels, but I’ve taken the odd gambler back to the Hilton in Sydney so I know what they look like. I’ve even had a drink in the bar of the Wentworth. The lobby of the Lincoln reminded me of Government House-all deep, dusty carpet, heavy furniture and too many surfaces to keep polished.

Spinoza and the other driver opened the trunks but the hotel staff unloaded the bags. Trudi and the others joined us in the lobby. She was looking tired and she kept shooting glances at Gary who was looking frightened.

‘What do you think of it?’ she said.

I shuffled my feet. ‘Let’s do the time warp again,’ I said.

‘They say Malcolm liked it because he could see the White House from his window.’

‘That’ll be Peter’s room,’ I said. ‘We’ll get to see the winos in the park. Oh, Billy Spinoza, this is Trudi Bell. She keeps score for our boss.’

‘Ma’am,’ Spinoza said. ‘Look, Cliff, you get your boy settled in and do what you have to do and give me a call.’ He handed me a card. ‘Anytime and the sooner the better.’

‘It could be late.’

‘We never sleep. Glad to have met you, Ms Bell.’

‘Who’s that?’ Trudi responded to January’s impatient wave and we went up floral-carpeted steps to the reception desk.

‘The Feds,’ I said.

We had five rooms at the end of a corridor on the fifth floor. Martin and Bolton shared, Gary, Trudi and I had separate rooms and January had a suite. The hotel looked out across Lafayette Square to the White House. That is to say, January’s rooms on the west side did. He could also choose to look at the inspirational sights of the Washington Monument and the Capitol, if that was his pleasure. The rest of us had grey government buildings to look at. Trudi came into my room and stood with me at the window. The day was clearing and blue patches were spreading across the sky.

‘That’s Georgetown,’ she said. ‘Where the rich folks live.’

I squinted. ‘And I do believe I can see a freeway in the distance.’

She snorted. ‘You’re a Sydneysider, you should be looking for water. See it through there?’

I was struck by the low level of the buildings. The Lincoln was only seven or eight storeys and I couldn’t see many higher ones around. I did see a pale gleam that could’ve been water.

‘What’s that, the mighty Mississip?’

‘Idiot. It’s the Georgetown Channel. How d’you like the decor?’

‘It reminds me of Aunt Maude’s parlour in Punchbowl. What’s on Peter’s plate for today?’

‘First, he has a nap, then he’s got two short meetings before dinner and a long meeting afterwards.’

‘Christ. I suppose I have to stand at the door with my hand inside my jacket throughout.’

‘I don’t think so. From what I’ve heard, everywhere he’s going’ll be bristling with security men. You’ll just have to sort of get him there and check him in and out.’

‘Like a hat and coat. Can I go and get laid then?’

‘You can do what you like. I’m the one who needs the sympathy. I have to sit in on the meetings. They’ll be 90 per cent bullshit.’

I put my arm around her. She’d taken off her shoes and, barefoot, she wasn’t much above my shoulder. The afternoon sun shone strongly through the window and it was nice standing there with a warm woman who smelled good. She rested there and put her arm around my back. I could feel her bicep roll under her skin, bunch up and stretch out.

The knock at the door was hard and urgent. ‘Trudi,’ Gary Wilcox yelled. ‘Peter wants you.’

She pulled away but I held her arm. ‘Don’t let him run you ragged. He’s not Jesus Christ even if the television people here think he is.’

‘No, but he could save the world, or our bit of it.’

I said. ‘I doubt it,’ but I was talking to myself. I unpacked, tested the bed and rang room service for a sandwich and a bottle of beer. I was almost asleep when it arrived. I had no American money to tip the waiter with; he accepted Australian but he wasn’t happy about it. The sandwich was thick and good; the beer was Budweiser. I drank half the bottle and fell asleep.

‘Five minutes, Mr Hardy!’ It was Trudi trilling and banging on the door. I cursed, rolled off the bed and threw myself under a cold shower which would guarantee I wouldn’t take long. I was dry and dressed close to five minutes later when January knocked and walked in.

‘You need a shave,’ he said.

‘My razor won’t fit in the plug.’

He picked up the phone. ‘Use mine while I phone. Make it quick, Cliff.’

I went out, down the passage and into January’s suite. Trudi was flicking through papers at a desk set by the window with the Presidential view.

‘Shaving,’ I said. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

She pointed. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Phoning.’

‘I wonder who.’

January’s cordless razor was almost silent. I came out shaving and talking over the sound. ‘Did he hear from Karen?’

Trudi shrugged. She’d changed into a conservative-looking suit and blouse with dark stockings and medium heels. Her hair was shiny and her face was rested and composed. It was an impressive transformation in 45 minutes but then, she didn’t have to shave. ‘If he did, he hasn’t told me. Now, you’re off to the Senate Chairman’s chief aide and then…to Commodore Brewster, he’s some sort of Pacific naval attache.’