Peter Corris - The January Zone

‘I am. But everyone seems to think that January’s suddenly got top priority. They’ll manage without me for a bit. Anyway, trip home’ll be very nice.’

‘Where’s home?’ I said.

‘Broken Hill. I won’t get anywhere near it, but a day in Sydney’ll be okay.’

‘You expect any trouble?’

He shrugged. ‘What else is there?’

I read until Flashy reached the guns and the Cossacks, and then I played poker for a while with Mike Borg. I lost a fair swag of the American money I hadn’t had any chance to spend. January drank steadily all the way across the USA. I surrendered the last pot to Borg and took a seat next to Trudi.

‘What’s wrong with the Chosen One?’

It was almost the first remark I’d addressed to her since our time together back at the hotel. We were close in spirit and mood, glad to be going home, but probably divided on the question of the worth of Peter January. ‘He’s tired. He took more of a knock when that microphone blew up than he’s let on.’

‘He shouldn’t be drinking. He should put brown paper in his socks for the jet lag or something.’

‘I think you’re too hard on him.’

‘Maybe. I didn’t hear anything really solid back there. A lot of words. D’you want a drink?’

‘No. I’ll have one when we leave LA. I’ll have several.’

‘Peter’ll be on his ear by then.’

‘He’ll stop. He knows when to stop. He’s going to have big problems at home. They say the local press went to town over this. It’ll be a madhouse when we get in, but he’ll be fine by then. You’ll see.’

I heard January order another Scotch. His jacket was off and his tie was loose.

‘He’s worried about Mrs Weiner, isn’t he? What did he hear from her?’

‘Not a word.’

We changed planes in Los Angeles. Between the transit lounge and the outside world there were many layers of bullet-proof glass, concrete and plastic. All I saw of the famous desert city was a shimmering blue sky which may have been an effect of the tinted glass, and a few palm trees in pots. I saw a tabloid newspaper banner though, one that would have gladdened Martin’s slogan-loving heart. Six-inch letters, red on white-’The January Zone’.

I assume Mike Borg made the arrangements from the cockpit. We arrived at Mascot in the late afternoon, just the time when the TV news crews would be screaming for footage. We saw them; the vans were parked outside the arrival gates; the technicians were running around the carpark and the reporters were probably hanging over the rail outside the customs hall. But our view was from inside the car that swept us away from the VIP room, where the immigration and customs formalities had been completed in double quick time.

It was a beautiful spring day. Borg wound down the window and almost hurt himself expanding his chest to suck in the Australian air. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Just great.’

January sat hunched in the corner of the back seat. He hadn’t changed his suit for the Sydney weather and he looked hot and uncomfortable. ‘I wish I could go to Bondi,’ he mumbled.

Borg grinned. ‘My instructions, Minister, are to stay with you to your first port of call. I’d be happy to accompany you to Bondi Beach.’

January managed a thin smile. ‘Thanks. No, I’ve got to go and see some of my bloody colleagues.’

Trudi pulled a face. ‘Hogbin?’

‘And others. I’m not going to be popular.’

‘You’ll be the darling of the media,’ Trudi said. ‘The most successful Australian in America since Crocodile Dundee.’

January flushed. He started to tense up the way he did before he delivered criticism and rebuke, but his shoulders slumped. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘It’s all theatre. Did you pick up those messages at the airport, Trude? With any luck they’ll have cancelled the meeting.’

Trudi handed him a couple of envelopes which were stamped with the dates and times they’d been received at the airport. He tapped them against the back of his bandaged hand. ‘D’you want to check these for letter bombs, Mr Borg?’

Borg tried another breath of the air but we were getting closer to the city now and it was mostly petrol and industrial fumes. He coughed. ‘I already have,’ he said. ‘They’re clean.’

January opened the envelopes. He crumpled one message, groaned when he read another and then fell silent. There was something in that silence that made me glance around. He was staring out the window and his jaw was set like a bench clamp. We were in Redfern where Sydney’s past, present and future is laid out in the mixture of small, mean buildings and grand, pretentious structures and the shades of colour in the faces of the people on the street. But January wasn’t seeing any of it. Trudi looked at him in alarm; Borg was taking in the scene or maybe keeping an eye out for gunmen.

‘What hotel, Mr Borg?’ January said sharply.

‘Ah, Gazebo at the Cross.’

‘Let’s get there. I’m afraid the rest of us have business to attend to.’

Borg looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m staying with you, sir. To liaise with the American end of things.’

‘I’m over-riding that. I’ll take the responsibility.’

‘Minister, I…’

‘Mr Borg,’ January said coldly. ‘I’m very grateful for all you’ve done, but I have matters to attend to with my private and personal staff. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

We dropped Borg at the hotel. I walked him to the door and barely had time to mutter a denial that I knew anything about what bee was in January’s bonnet. I’d told him how highly I rated Billy Spinoza while we’d played cards and I reminded him of it.

‘Understood,’ he said. ‘I’ll be here the rest of the day if you need me.’

January and Trudi stood in the sun on the footpath. ‘Trudi told the driver where to drop the luggage,’ January said. ‘I need a drink and I have to talk to you two.’

I led the way to the Bourbon Brasserie. The girl who’d been on duty outside when I’d lunched with Tobin was at her post again, but she was smart enough to see that she had nothing to offer the three people with crumpled clothes, jet lag and grim faces.

On the way to the bar we passed a man eating his breakfast-bacon and eggs. He was drinking what looked like a Scotch and soda. In the afternoon dimness the bar had a seedy look, as if the mirrors needed polishing or the people needed a shower. We sat in the darkest corner, 20 feet from two solitary drinkers on stools at the bar and about the same from the only other occupied table. January ordered Scotch for all of us without asking. When the drinks came he took out the airport message envelope, extracted another envelope and took from that a piece of paper. His hand shook as he passed it to me.

‘My brain’s seized,’ he said. ‘I’m right at the top, did what I wanted to do most and now this has to happen.’

The paper was the rough stuff of the previous threatening notes. The crude printing was the same also: ‘I HAVE takeN MRS Weiner. I will kill HEr if you do not DO what I SaY. No POlice. I will Telephone at 7 p.m. today.’

‘Jesus,’ Trudi said. ‘Have you tried to reach her?’

January took a gulp of his drink. ‘I haven’t done anything! You’ve been with me the whole time for God’s sake. What can I do?’

‘Ring her,’ I said.

‘I might get her husband, or what if the police are already involved? I could…’

‘Yeah. Give me the numbers. I’ll ring.’

He clicked a pen and was about to scribble numbers on the envelope the note had been in when I snatched it away. ‘Not on that. Something else.’