Peter Corris - The January Zone

The restaurant, which was named Dino’s or Mario’s or Luigi’s, had red and white tablecloths but they were striped not checked and the bottles in which the candles stood didn’t have wickerwork around them. Spinoza had a quiet word with the supervisor and a couple was moved away from a table in the corner. They were smiling and I watched as the cloth was changed on the table and they were re-settled. A bottle of wine arrived for them and was uncorked with a smile and a flourish. Then we sat down.

‘Okay?’ Spinoza said.

We were in a corner; no doors behind us or to the side, a clear view of the entrance, the serving door and the door that led to the conveniences. I could even see through a window into the small carpark at the side. ‘Fine,’ I said.

‘Double vodka,’ Trudi said to the drink waiter. ‘Scotch and ice to my right and beer for the gentlemen opposite.’

‘Mineral water,’ Spinoza said.

The waiter looked enquiringly at me. ‘Light beer,’ I said. ‘I love a compromise.’

January was rubbing his eyes and massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

‘They say you shouldn’t eat when you’ve got jet lag, Peter,’ I said. ‘You should have a salad.’

‘I’ve never had jet lag in my life,’ January snarled. ‘I want osso bucco and a litre of red wine. God, I’m going to make them sorry for this.’

‘You’ll be sorry if you drink a litre of red wine here, sir,’ Spinoza said softly. ‘But what d’you mean, if I may ask. The threats…?’

‘No, I’m talking about that prick who thought I was a South African.’

The drinks arrived and Spinoza sipped his mineral water. ‘That is a considerable insult,’ he said. ‘Cliff, do you…?’

But I wasn’t listening; I wasn’t even drinking. I was looking out into the carpark and I knew what had disturbed me before but wouldn’t quite rise to the surface. The white Volvo with the red stripe I’d seen at our first stop had been in the carpark at the second stop and here it was again, pulling into a parking bay right outside.

I muttered the information to Spinoza as I got up from the table.

‘Could be a feint,’ he said. ‘I’ll watch the folks. Think you can handle it?’

I nodded. His signal to the restaurant supervisor must have meant ‘Give this man the moon’ because he leaned his ear up to my mouth and looked ready to clear the place if need be.

‘Quick way to the carpark?’ I said.

He didn’t waste time talking; his hand gripped my arm and he steered me past tables and out through the kitchen to a set of heavy perspex doors.

‘You can see it from here, buddy. We got a guy parks the cars.’

The Volvo owner was dark, heavy-set, with thin hair and a green face, but that was just the neon light above the building tinting him. He didn’t want his car parked by anyone. He wanted to leave it where it was. The car parker, a young black man wearing whites with a bow tie and a white cap, didn’t want him to do that but saw reason when Green Face gave him some money. I slipped out of the kitchen and ducked low behind the cars, moving forward to cut him off before he got to the door of the restaurant.

I got a quick look at the Volvo on the way-no one else in it. Green Face moved slowly; he was either furtive, hesitant or careful. He was built wide and strong; his suit was baggy and he wore scuffed suede shoes. He kept one hand in his pocket I took out the. 38, took four long steps and swung a kick in behind his right knee. His hands flew in the air, both empty and clawing at the wall for support. I hooked at his ankle and watched him fall.

He hit on his side and rolled over onto his back. I bent down and put the gun in front of his face where he could see it.

‘Stay there,’ I said, ‘and you won’t get hurt.’

His voice came out in a strangled whine with a lot of Australian vowels. ‘I am hurt!’

All that stuff about Americans ignoring muggings in the street is true; we were only feet away from the main throroughfare; several people stared at me as I bent over a fallen man threatening him with a gun, but no one stopped. You can’t count on it absolutely, though. The carpark attendant came out from behind a car with a gun bigger than mine in his hand.

‘Hold it there,’ he said.

‘You hold it.’ I eased back a little but remained businesslike. ‘This is official. It’s okay.’

‘The hell it’s official,’ the man on the ground said.

‘Have I touched your wallet? Am I trying to take your car keys? And if I wanted you to be dead that’s how you’d be.’ I was reasonably sure he wasn’t armed and not just because he spoke with an Australian accent. His jacket was open and he wore no harness; if he had a gun in his sock it’d be my own fault if I let him get it. I slid the safety to ‘on’ and put my gun away. ‘Would you please,’ I said to the attendant, ‘go inside and get a message to Mr Spinoza that everything’s all right. You can see that it is, can’t you?’

‘I guess so.’ He uncocked the big gun.

‘Don’t go!’ Green Face who was now White Face wriggled on the ground.

‘I’m Peter January’s security man,’ I said.

He groaned. ‘Shit! Okay, it’s okay.’

‘You done made my night, mister,’ the car parker said. ‘Spinoza, was it?’

‘Right.’

He backed away and headed for the kitchen door. The man on the ground tucked his left leg back and levered himself up. I watched him but didn’t help. He propped himself against the wall and we inspected each other.

‘Why the hell did you do that?’ he said.

‘You made me nervous following us the way you did. Who are you?’

‘I’m Don Carver. I’m a reporter.’

‘If you want an interview there’s a procedure.’

Carver brushed dirt from his shirtfront. ‘I don’t want a fucking interview. I wanted to observe the bastard. Do you realise where you are? Cameramen sue tennis players for millions in this country-for busting a camera.’

‘The tennis players sue back,’ I said. ‘Well, you’ve got your story. You can tell them the Minister’s got good security.’

He glowered at me. He had the sort of bulky body that won’t respond well to tailoring. His clothes were expensive but they hung around him awkwardly. His hair was precisely trimmed but it still looked thin and scruffy. He wasn’t a happy man. ‘There’s no news in that. He’s always had thugs around him.’

I moved closer to him and brushed more dirt from his jacket. ‘Something just occurred to me-January has had the odd threat since he got here. Now you turn up skulking around and you clearly don’t like him. I could put two and two together.’

‘That’s rubbish.’

‘So you say. Maybe I should have a word about you to the security boys here. Would that cramp your style at all, Carver?’

He stopped glowering and looked uncomfortable. ‘I was just doing my job.’

‘Me, too. You want to take a look at him before you go on your way?’

‘I suppose so.’

He eased himself painfully away from the wall and limped along after me. I took him into the carpark, nodded to the attendant, and we looked in through the window.

Peter January had his arm around Trudi’s shoulders. He was telling a story and Trudi and Spinoza were laughing. Light danced on the glasses on the table and on the bottle as the waiter poured January some wine. He smiled at Trudi and she touched his shoulder to draw his attention to something. I felt Carver stiffen beside me.

He sniffed noisily. ‘Who’s she?’

‘Assistant,’ I said.

‘There’s always someone. Nothing’s changed. Well, I’ve seen all I need to see. What’s your name?’