Peter Corris - The January Zone

‘If it’s for tonight you won’t have to. It’ll be settled one way or another before that.’

Borg looked surprised when he saw the Falcon. Living in Washington he probably hadn’t ridden in a car that old for years. He was wearing a lightweight suit but he’d left the tie off. He had the Washington bulge under his arm and a light in his eye. I filled him in on the drive.

‘Sounds like an amateur,’ he grunted. ‘Think he was shooting to kill when he took a pot at Trudi?’

I jockeyed the car into the centre lane among the heavy afternoon traffic on Parramatta Road. ‘Hard to say. Did I say the bomb killed a kid in January’s office.’

‘That right? Could’ve been an accident. Well, it doesn’t matter much, you gotta treat ‘em all different.’

‘That’s why you’re here,’ I said. ‘I think Tobin’s philosophy is to treat them all the same.’

We had a long wait at the lights; January’s office and the health food shop were down the street a couple of blocks from the turn. I tried to call up a picture of Charles but I couldn’t get much. My image was confused by the police artist’s sketch. I remembered that Weiss had remarked on muscles. Magda, his wife, was easier to think about. Did she have the kind of beauty that could turn a man’s mind? Hard to say-minds turn for different things.

Everything seemed normal in the street, which is to say that it was busy and parking spaces were hard to find. I squeezed the Falcon into a semilegal spot outside the Post Office and Borg and I approached the pub down the lane Trudi had mentioned. Borg reminded me of good non-coms I’d known in Malaya-cover spotters, escape route mappers…survivors.

We went into the public bar. The pool table was in use and so was the dart board. A machine behind the bar that dispensed coins for the pinball machines clattered and a stream of money flowed into a glass. The bar was about half full with a scattering of people at the tables and a few along each wing of the three-sided bar. It was the time for casual conversations, when the social drinkers are having a quiet one and the real drinkers are still pacing themselves and minding their own business.

‘Good pub,’ Borg said. ‘Can we see the joint from here?’

‘Yeah, from the window over by the phone.’

‘I’ll take a look. You find this Julian.’

Julian was at the bar; a six foot three inch Maori with tattoos on his arms and shoulders, and there was a hell of a lot of arm and shoulder to work on. He had a schooner in one hand and a cigarette in the other, very bad for his health but I wouldn’t have cared to tell him so. He was staring straight ahead and his big, heavy face was wrinkled in concentration.

I ordered two beers. ‘Get you something, Julian?’ I said.

The huge head turned slowly. He examined me carefully, took a drag on his cigarette and nodded. ‘Hardy,’ he said.

‘That’s right. Trudi’s called, then?’

‘Just now. She said to watch for you and I saw you come in.’

‘What? Through the back of your head?’

He pointed in the direction he’d been looking and I saw a mirror mounted high up so that it exactly framed the doorway. ‘She said you’ve got a bit of time. Know about that mirror?’

I shook my head. Paid for the beers and sipped. It seemed best to humour him. ‘The story is there was a man used to drink here who had to watch ‘is back, know what I mean? Well, he was popular so they put the mirror in so’s he could watch the door.’

‘And?’

The laugh started deep down in his belly and spread up through the vast auditorium of his chest. He bellowed and took a swallow of his drink. ‘One of the blokes that was after ‘im got a job as a barman here. Shot ‘im straight through the chest. Great story, dunno if it’s true. Yeah, Trudi says she’s on ‘er way and the cop won’t be far behind. I wrote it down.’ He pulled a TAB ticket from his pocket and read off the initials. ‘He’s comin’ with a TRF. Wazzat?’

‘Tactical Response Force,’ Borg said. He reached across me for the other drink. ‘You must be Julian. Gidday.’

Julian nodded. ‘What I can do? Mr January’s coming too, Trudi says.’

‘Just keep an eye on them both,’ I said. ‘Try to stop him from doing anything silly.’

‘I see the bloody guns. Trouble?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Borg said.

We went to the window and looked across the street to the building. There was a clear view of the top storey room at the back of the health food shop; it was across two flat roofs from January’s office and it afforded vision into the street in front and to the back and left.

‘Can’t see a bloody thing from there to the right,’ Borg said.’ I did a quick reccy. That back room, that loft thing, has a blank wall on the right and you can get up to it across the roof. I walked past the shop. It’s just a matter of through and up the stairs at the back. It’s an easy set-up to penetrate but I’ve seen easier fucked up before.’

‘How?’

‘The target’s too tempting. They lob tear gas into the loft, the guys inside panic and take a shot and they shred it from the street. Very messy.’

‘Tactical Response Force,’ I said. ‘Heavy mob.’

‘You said it. It doesn’t look hard, Cliff. One in the front and one over the roof.’

‘Could you see who was in the shop?’

‘Not properly. A woman in the front but I got an impression of someone else.’

‘I guess I take the roof. He’s seen me in the shop and probably in his ‘scope.’

Borg nodded. ‘I’ll go in. Sit on him. You kick in the window and get the woman if she’s there. We meet in the middle. Timing’s the thing. I’ll go in at…2.35. You hit the window at the same time. Of course there’s one thing.’

‘What?’

‘He could be standing at the window with a gun.’

‘Or sitting on the stairs.’

‘Yeah. Why’re you doing this. Cliff? For January?’

‘Hardly. I don’t really know. What about you?’

We’d kept our voices low but something about the tightness in us and the rigid alertness of Julian were beginning to attract attention. It was time to go.

Borg cleared his throat. ‘I’m bloody sick of Washington. It’s all bullshit and brainless bigwigs. If this goes well I could get a classy posting back here. I’d love to get back to the Hill for a bit.’

‘What if it doesn’t go well?’

He grinned. ‘I always try to think and act positive. We clear? 4.05 and in!’

I went further down the lane and skirted around to come up on the blind side of the loft. I had 12 minutes to get onto the roof and across to the window. Borg’s reccy had been good but you can’t see everything from ground level. Climbing onto a roof three buildings away from the health food store was no problem. From a paling fence up onto a garage and across its solid iron roof to the next. Then the problems started; the tin on the last roof but one was rusted through and I could see the rotting bearers underneath. It didn’t look as if they could take my weight.

I worked forward along the good roof with my eyes straining at the dilapidated one. The flashing had come away and the whole of the first section of iron was a mess. And the next section didn’t look much better. Eight minutes. I needed a long plank to put across but there was nothing around to serve and I didn’t have time to go back to ground level and look. Six minutes. I was going to have jump across and hope for the best.

Eight, maybe 10 feet across the rotted timber to a point that looked sound. Looked. Five minutes. I’d cleared 19 feet 9 inches in the long jump at senior high school. Third place. But then I had a 60 yard cinder track run-up, now I had about three steps to take before the jump. Four minutes. I took the steps back and got ready to go forward and across and Borg’s question came to my mind: why was I doing this? I still didn’t know.