Peter Corris - The January Zone

‘Sure. Why not.’

I sipped the second cup and tried to think analytically. What the material had in common was threat. Even the mildest of the organisations, the most pacific, had an element of threat in their approach. The real threateners were nasty: there were a couple of pro-Palestinian bombers, an IRA sniper and an East Timor nationalist who threatened kidnap. Two letters from private citizens made reference to their wives and punches on January’s nose. A note, crudely printed on a square of rough paper, could have been in the same category. It read: ‘Do not speak to her again or I will kill you.’

I doodled, circling the references to bombs. I made separate piles of the stuff that had an international flavour-threat of world communism, domination by inferior races-and the purely local. I wished I had the envelopes with the postmarks. I wished I had some better ideas. A shadow fell across the table and I looked up to see Sam Weiss looming over me. Weiss is a freelance journalist; his lance is free because he’s been sacked from every paper in the eastern states.

‘Gidday, Cliff,’ he said. ‘It’s my lucky day.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Buy you a coffee?’

‘No thanks. What’s the story?’

‘A ripper. Happened to be in the neighbourhood and saw you in deep conversation with the luscious Ms Bell, and now I find you pouring over Peter January’s hate mail.’

I closed the folder and laid my hand over it. Weiss laughed.

‘Too late, mate, you were deeply engrossed and I saw all. I can see the headlines- “Bombed Minister hires PI to catch child slayer”.’

I must have built up some aggression from reading the crazy mail because I over-reacted to Sam Weiss’s statement. I came up from my chair fast and straight-armed him, hitting him on the chest and thrusting him back. He had to kick plastic chairs and pot plants aside to stay on his feet as I drove him back to the ivy-covered wall. He hit it hard; the wind went out of him in a rush and I held him there, pinned and wriggling even though he was nearly as tall as me and quite a bit heavier. My anger had made me strong.

‘Easy, Cliff, easy. What’s got into you?’

‘You won’t write anything about this, Sam. Nothing-got it!’

‘I have to make a living.’ He was sweating freely and I didn’t want to touch him anymore. I took my hand away and he relaxed against the wall. The sweat broke out on his forehead below the few dark strands across his bald head and a patch spread across his chest, under the cotton shirt spread tight by his belly.

‘You were making a good living,’ I said, ‘until you started to piss it up against a wall.’

His thin, tight voice went into a whine. ‘I’m off the grog, Cliff. Whaddya think I’m doing hanging around coffee bars?’

‘That’s a point.’ I went back to my seat and squared the folder which had got a little disarranged when I’d got up quickly. I felt a bit ashamed; Weiss had been a good investigative journalist once but he’d taken too much money from the wrong papers and lost his edge. We all make mistakes and I shouldn’t have strong-armed him.

He was game-he couldn’t have broken some of the stories he had otherwise. ‘C’n I sit down?’ He pulled one of the chairs he’d knocked over upright and sat. ‘Let’s talk. More coffee?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m full of the stuff. What d’we talk about, Sam? The weather? Jolly good for the time of year.’

‘Give it a rest, Cliff. I’m rehabilitating myself. You’d be all for that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I need a story. A good one. With a really good one up maybe you could put in a word with Harry Tickener at The News.’

‘You’ve got a fair way to go, Sam. You have to live down that “Dead model left love diary” shit.’ This was a scandal story that had appeared under Weiss’s by-line in one of the tabloids. Everybody denied everything and everybody sued everybody else. Word was the paper had settled out of court for big money.

‘I got conned,’ Weiss said. ‘I was trying too hard, over-anxious. I need a solid story. Research in depth, take time to follow things up. You know what I mean.’

‘The last thing a man in my business needs is his name in the paper. I’m working for January on the bombing…’

‘Bullshit. You’ve signed on as a minder.’

‘You’re getting up my nose, Sam. Piss off!’

‘I can help you.’

‘Yeah, get me in the headlines. People come to me to stay out of the bloody headlines. D’you think I want the sort of people I have to talk to, you know, drop in on and ask if the hubby’s at home or when do you expect your son back, Mrs Kefoops, to recognise me? Be your age.’

Weiss leaned back and yawned. There was still an air of neglect about him, a smell as if he washed his socks in the bath and his shirt in a dirty laundromat with too much soap powder. But at least he was washing. He was fat but perhaps not as fat as when I’d last seen him and his colour was slightly better. Maybe he was on a comeback. He didn’t overplay it. ‘I can get you together with Tobin,’ he said quietly.

That was something to think about. I hadn’t seen Tobin for a good few years, not since he was a pushy, hard-nosed, detective sergeant at Balmain. I’d heard that he’d done well since; he’d been involved in some big cases that had come out right and none of the mud that was always flying around in the police world had stuck to him.

‘What’s Tobin’s rank now?’

‘Inspector,’ Weiss said.

‘God help all the sergeants. What’s his part in this? I haven’t been following his illustrious career all that closely.’

Weiss had his confidence back. He signalled for a coffee. The wet patch on his shirt was drying out. ‘I know he’s been following yours. He had a run-in with your mate Grant Evans one time. Could’ve held him back a bit if Evans hadn’t taken the Melbourne job. He doesn’t like Evans and he doesn’t like you.’

‘Don’t push it too hard, Sam. You’ve made your point. If you can get me through to Tobin it’ll be useful. I’ll do what I can for you in return. But you still haven’t told me why Tobin’s in the picture.’

The coffee came. Weiss looked lustfully at the sugar bowl but didn’t touch it. He ordered a can of Diet Coke instead. He ate the froth off the top of the cup with his spoon and then stirred longer than he needed to.

‘Sammy…’ I said.

‘I’m thinking. Tobin’s been made head of some special task force. Anti-terrorist thing. All bombings come to him, same with sabotage.’ He grinned. Also strikes, in some cases.’

‘Jesus, what do the security boys think about that?’

Weiss drank some coffee. ‘This is getting to be an unequal relationship already. I’m telling you things and you’re telling me nothing.’

‘I’ll talk when there’s something to talk about.’

‘Yeah. Well, the security people hate Tobin’s guts. He doesn’t care. He gets first crack at things usually-evidence, statements and so on, and he passes them on when he’s ready. Drives the spooks nuts.’

‘I bet. What’s he like these days, Tobin?’

The Coke came and Weiss drained it in a couple of gulps. He started to tie knots in the straw with his plump fingers. When he’d finished he poked the straw down into the can. ‘Tobin’s fat. Fatter ‘n me.’

‘How soon can you set up a meeting?’

‘Tomorrow or the next day do you?’

‘Good.’ He was squirming in his seat. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Bladder trouble.’

‘You need royal blood. How come you’n Tobin’re so close?’

‘We’re brothers-in-law; Tobin married my sister. Also we can be useful to each other. Like you and me.’ He drained his coffee and looked pleased with himself. I was beginning to dislike this job already. Being drawn into a network of obligations with the likes of Tobin and Weiss wasn’t my idea of fun. It was the sort of thing Cyn, my ex-wife, had predicted for me. ‘You’ll get just like them,’ she’d said. ‘Ends will justify means, and the ends will get more worthless and the means will get sleazier.’ I hadn’t seen Cyn for years but some of her criticisms were still useful warnings.