Peter Corris - The January Zone

‘He’s alive,’ the man said. ‘Stunned real bad though. Concussion.’

‘Anyone call an ambulance?’ I said.

‘Hey, an Aussie,’ someone said from the crowd.

The man with blood on his shirt handed me the glasses. ‘I told someone to get help.’

‘Thanks.’

Martin groaned and lifted his head. ‘Who’re these people? What happened?’

I put my hand behind his head which looked like falling back. ‘Don’t you know?’

He tried to shake his head and winced as the pain shot through him. ‘Nothing. Where am I?’

‘Ain’t no mugger,’ one of the on-lookers said. ‘Lookit, his wallet’s still there.’

No ambulance ever came but the hotel doctor arrived and pronounced Martin fit to be moved. We got him back to the hotel where the doctor stitched the gash, gave him a sedative and advised hospitalisation. By this time Spinoza had arrived so six of us congregated in January’s suite.

‘It’s looking bad, sir,’ Spinoza said. ‘The harassments intensifying. I think you shouldn’t go today.’

‘No!’ January slapped his palm hard against the window. We were all standing up, nervous and uncertain. ‘I’m going. They’ve been cancelling me right, left and centre. I’m not cancelling myself.’

‘Private dwelling, lots of people, neighbouring apartments.’ Spinoza checked the points off on his long, thin fingers. ‘Very hard to protect you.’

‘I don’t care,’ January said. ‘None of the rest of you have to come, though.’

‘I’m paid to come,’ I said.

‘I’ll need it for my memoirs,’ Trudi said.

‘What?’ January spun away from the window and stared at her.

‘I’m going to write my memoirs. I need to experience everything.’

January grinned; his ego was still working even when he was under threat. ‘Memoirs, Jesus,’ he said.

Gary Wilcox genuinely had another appointment and Bolton contrived one so it was just the four of us that set out for Georgetown in an unassuming white Mercedes, Spinoza at the wheel.

‘Who lives here?’ I asked. We were outside a tall building, one of a number close together along the tree-lined street. The buildings were widely enough spaced to allow the trees and courtyards between them to look comfortable.

‘Mrs Amos Clephane,’ Trudi said.

Big cars were drawing up and dropping people outside the condominium. A uniformed motorcycle cop was helping to sort the traffic out. Spinoza showed him a card in a plastic folder and the cop pointed to a parking space, if you can call a spot squarely across a driveway a parking place. Spinoza slipped the Merc into place. ‘She’s the widow of a Judge,’ he said. ‘A very young and very liberal judge who got himself shot. Very rich Judge. Mrs Clephane now works for liberal causes.’

‘A young, rich, liberal widow,’ January said. ‘That must be interesting for her in this town.’

We got out of the car and Spinoza locked it carefully. ‘I believe she enjoys it, sir. She’s very popular. Well, folks, you won’t see me for a while but I’ll be around.’

I grinned at Trudi. ‘What did I tell you.’

Spinoza heard me but ignored it. ‘You must have done this before, Cliff. You look is all.’

‘Right. I assume there’ll be a few guys around who’re on our side?’

‘Not many. Mrs Clephane isn’t exactly on the Administration’s guest list this season.’

‘How many.’

He smiled and did the first bit of coloured-man patter I’d heard from him. ‘Just me,’ he said.

We went through a gate which would normally be a security device except that it had been neutralised for the occasion. The courtyard in front of the apartment block was bigger than I’d expected-big enough to hold a trestle table covered with glasses, bottles and plates and a marquee under which a long table with six or seven chairs was placed. There was a microphone on a stand at the end of the table. People were mixing in the courtyard; there were more dark faces than I’d seen so far in the official parts of the city I’d been in. Also more young people, although there were middle-aged and old liberals as well.

January was snatched away by a 40-ish blonde woman with elaborate hair and an ornamental face. I was left standing with Trudi.

‘What d’you do?’ she said.

‘Check exits and entries. Sniff the olives in the martinis. How about you?’

‘Try to stay close to Peter. Keep his drinks watered and get him a few minutes to look over his speech.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Agreements with the Russians in the Pacific’

‘Whose agreements?’

‘Ours.’

I looked around the courtyard; there were 50 or more people in it now and the noise was going up. Most were sipping drinks and a few were smoking cigars. The women wore their expensive clothes as if they’d just stepped into any old thing. Trudi’s loose white dress was right; my linen jacket, slacks and slip-on shoes would have been okay if I’d paid ten times as much for them. ‘Don’t see any friends of the USSR here,’ I said.

Trudi shrugged and drifted away to look for the boss.

I got a glass of wine as a prop and cruised around doing what I said I’d do. The kitchen staff were all black and all busy. The waiters and food dolers-out were all bored but polite. I checked doors and windows through the apartment which ran up for three floors and had balconies and a dumb waiter and a dozen other things I managed to live without. I didn’t see anything to worry me and I was challenged twice by men who identified themselves as ‘friends of our hostess’. We managed to convince each other that we were on the same side.

When I got back to the courtyard it was full almost to the point of discomfort. I saw Creighton Kirby chatting to a tall black woman. I looked around for Mike Borg but couldn’t spot him. The wine had got warm. I took a sip and found a woman standing beside me trying to look into my eyes. It wasn’t too hard for her-in her high heels she was almost as tall as me.

‘He-ello,’ she said.

‘Hello.’

‘You part of the Oss-tralian party?’

‘That’s right.’ She was wearing a tight dress with a cut away top that gave her nowhere to hide a gun. If it was under her skirt I thought I could get to mine faster. ‘Why’re you here, Miss…?’

She waved her hand. She was carrying a long thin champagne glass, nearly full, but she didn’t spill any. I guessed she practised champagne glass waving a couple of hours a day. ‘It’s Mrs, but don’t let it worry you.’

‘Okay.’ She leaned closer; I could smell expensive perfume and see the fine pores in her skin. Her eyelids and lipstick were purple. Her dark hair was drawn back tightly and her cheekbones were accentuated. She was perfect, if you like spider women.

‘I’m anti-nuclear.’ Her voice was low and breathy. ‘And I’ve never done it with an Oss-ie before.’

‘You don’t know what you’re missing. We’re the best.’

‘The best?’

‘Yeah. It’s from living on the underneath side of the world.’ I dropped my voice and got closer to her ear. She wore hooped gold earrings in her pierced lobes. ‘The blood rushes to the right place and stays there, if you see what I mean. Well, nice talking to you. I’d better go and skin a kangaroo.’

I left her looking glazed and uncertain. Trudi pushed towards me through a press of tall blondes and redheads of both sexes.

‘There’s nothing happening down here at five foot four,’ she said. ‘How’s it up at six foot one?’

‘You’re half an inch too high. I’ve had one offer of meaningful adultery.’

‘The spider woman?’

‘Yeah, that’s her. She’s after an Australian. Lucky Martin and Bolton aren’t here, she’d eat them. I suppose Peter might oblige.’