The January Zone ch-10

by Peter Corris

  ‘Don’t ask. This could be the same. I wouldn’t put it past that shit Sammy Weiss to pull some stunts like this. How’d he get to the press conference the other day?’

  ‘Through me. He was useful. I think you’re on the wrong track, Peter. I suggest you give up women for a while.’

  ‘You believe this wronged husband shit?’

  I shrugged. ‘For the shooting, maybe. I don’t know about the bomb.’

  ‘Well, anyway, I’ll be able to drop the playboy stuff soon. Karen and I’ll work something out.’

  ‘And you’ll be faithful and true while you’re over here?’ Trudi waved at the window. I supposed we were somewhere over the mid-West.

  January grinned. ‘Not as easy as that. You’ve heard of Don Carver, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh, shit!’ Gary said.

  The name meant something to me but I wasn’t sure what. ‘Who’s he, the Ambassador or someone?’

  January laughed hard. ‘No, we’ll be dealing with our peace ambassador, that’s Creighton Kirby and he hates my guts too.’

  ‘Too?’ I said.

  ‘I had a thing with his wife once. But I had a bigger thing with Carver’s wife. He’s the Washington correspondent for the Incorporated Press papers at home. He knows me; if I step out of character he’ll smell a rat and he’ll know where to look.’

  ‘ I hope Mrs Weiner knows how to send a discreet telegram then,’ I said.

  January groaned. ‘Christ, so do I.’

  ****

  13

  January’s performance in Los Angeles had gone over big in a news-starved lull. The result was that it was bedlam at Kennedy Airport and more bedlam at La Guardia where we went to catch the shuttle to Washington. January loved it and kept it up. When a crew-cut reporter wearing a mustard-coloured suit with a dark shirt and tie shoved a microphone at him and screamed: ‘Are you a Red agent!’ January grinned and undid his belt.

  ‘Christ!’ Trudi said. ‘What’s he going to do?’

  Martin covered his eyes and Gary Wilcox shrank back towards the potted palms. I was doing my steely-eyed, crowd-surveying number, but I saw January pull up the waistband of his jockey shorts.

  ‘I’m wearing red underpants,’ he said. He let the elastic snap back and re-fastened his belt. ‘And a blue tie and a white shirt. I’m wearing red, white and blue.’

  A small cheer went up from the media mob which January silenced with an upraised palm. ‘Tell me, Mr…?’ He transfixed the crew-cut reporter with his hard blue eyes.

  ‘F…Fisher.’

  ‘Mr Fisher. Which way did you vote in the last Congressional election-Democrat or Republican?’

  Fisher was no slouch; he recovered fast. The flush which had been spreading over his skull, visible under the thin crew-cut hair, died down. ‘You can’t ask that question of an American citizen. I want to know…’

  ‘You misunderstand,’ January said silkily. ‘I want to know if you voted either way.’

  ‘Well, no, I…’

  ‘You didn’t vote at all?’ January drew himself up and looked more than five foot eight or nine. ‘You’re not a serious political person and yours is not a serious political question.’ He flashed a smile. ‘And from your clothes my guess is you’re colour blind anyway. Next.’

  The reporters lapped it up but January knew when to stop. One of the print men pushed forward and held out his hand. ‘G’die, mite,’ he said. ‘Gotta prahn fer th’ barby?’

  January ignored the hand and turned to me. ‘What did he say?’ He spoke clearly enough for the mike to pick up his voice.

  ‘Search me,’ I said. ‘I think he’s French.’

  January pumped the reporter’s hand hard. ‘Sorry, I don’t speak much French. If you’d like to put the question in writing I’ll be happy to answer.’

  ‘Mr January-Cassie Burnett, NBC News.’ January gave her the nod. She was a tall redhead in a fur coat and boots. There was no window to look out but, judging from the clothes the reporters wore, it was cold outside. January had changed into a dark suit.

  ‘Ms Burnett.’

  ‘How would you describe your policy for the Pacific region-in a few words?’

  January grinned at her but kept his voice serious. ‘My job to is give my views and those of a lot of people who think as I do to your Senate committee. I’ll try to make it clear what those views are but it’s not my job to sum them up in a few words. I’m afraid, Ms Burnett, that that’s your job. Let me know when you’ve got them.’

  I could feel Trudi squirming beside me; the charm was a touch too thick but it worked for Cassie. ‘I will, sir,’ she said huskily.

  I buckled my seat belt and looked at January. ‘Can you keep this pace up?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do you think, Martin?’ Martin shrugged. ‘You seem to be making the rules, Minister.’

  ****

  Creighton Kirby met us at National Airport although he seemed rather resentful about having to do it. He was a tall, sandy-haired and freckled man with a Melbourne Club air about him. He wore a light poplin top coat so it was evidently warmer in Washington than New York. But that was all right because January had changed again-into a mid-weight suit and he carried a coat very similar to Kirby’s over his arm. Those of us who’d travelled 22 hours in the same clothes weren’t in the sartorial hunt.

  ‘Creighton,’ January said, while the minions bustled about with the bags, ‘why are you looking so cross?’

  ‘I’ll be frank.’ Kirby spoke with a crisp, Establishment accent that would get on my nerves inside half an hour. ‘You’ve created a stir at a time when I had some very delicate negotiations underway. I…’

  January made as if to turn on his heel. ‘Well, if you’re on the brink of achieving total disarmament, I’ll just piss off.’

  Kirby’s thin mouth twisted in distaste. ‘Please, just consult me before you make public statements that could be twisted.’

  Trudi, Gary and the advisers had got into a huddle with some people who had arrived with Kirby. That left me with the Ambassador and the Minister, crumpled suit and all. Kirby was evidently used to bodyguards being within earshot because he ignored me completely.

  ‘If there was disarmament, Creighton, you’d be out of a job, wouldn’t you?’

  Kirby’s long, bony features twitched as if to say there was no danger of that. The dislike flowing between the two men generated a tension that almost had a smell to it. I had to stop staring at them and do my job. I shielded my eyes from the glare coming through the big windows and looked around the polished floors and the steel and glass pillars and gleaming plastic surfaces for wrong movements, Wrong faces and anything that shouldn’t be there.

  It was early afternoon and the place was busy. There were more security men around than you’d see in Australia but not as many as I’d been led to suspect. That’s unless the cleaners were carrying. 45s and the clerks had grenade launchers under the desks. Kirby acknowledged a signal from one of his team and spoke to a point a few inches above January’s head. ‘We’ve got a couple of cars for you. I have another appointment so I’ll…’ The sentence ended in a mumble but January had already turned away.

  ‘I’ll travel with you, Minister,’ I said, ‘and Trudi and the others can go in together. Gary, you come with us. Is there some kind of contact man around I can talk to?’

  ‘Here he is,’ Gary said. ‘This is…sorry, mate, I forget your name. This is Cliff Hardy.’

  I shook hands with a chunky, useful-looking man who herded us along towards the doors. ‘Mike Borg,’ he said. ‘I’ve gotta nursemaid F…ah, the Ambassador at some do or other but I’ll see you to the cars. How’re you splittin’ em?’

  I told him and he nodded agreement. ‘What were you going to call Kirby?’ I asked.

  ‘Freckles,’ he said. ‘Cost me m’ job if he heard it. Here we go.’

  We stood by a sweeping driveway under a grey sky that was starting to spit rain. Two black limousines were waiting with a black driver in
each.

  Borg looked in at each man and said something brief and polite. I took Trudi to the second car and opened the door. She got in the back with Bolton. Martin sat next to the driver. Gary supervised the loading of the baggage into the trunks of the cars; he and January settled into the padding and I got in the front. The driver was a lean, whippy-looking man with a thin moustache and a tuft of hair on his chin. He started the motor, which made no sound at all, and pulled smoothly out onto the roadway which was turning dark as the rain started to fall heavily.

  ‘Lincoln,’ he said.

  ‘Right. How long?’

  ‘Well, it so happens we’ve got to go a little out of our way today. There’s some roadworks on the usual route. Depends on the traffic’ His voice was slow but with a neutral, eastern accent. ‘It’s a quiet day, won’t take long.’

  The car was moving fast in the middle lane of a five lane road. The traffic slowed and bunched up as we reached the roadworks. We followed a detour sign right and picked up a secondary road that ran at an angle from the highway. I looked out of the tinted window through the screen of rain at a low-lying light industrial and residential area. It looked to be in need of trees and paint.

  ‘Is there anything to see on the way in?’

  The driver glanced across at me and grinned. He had good strong teeth but nothing out of the ordinary, no gold. I was feeling a bit disappointed in him. ‘Are you from the city?’

  ‘Sydney,’ I said. ‘Australia.’

  ‘Then I’d say you’ve seen a whole lot better than this. I’m from Boston myself and I know I have.’

  Gary and January were murmuring in the back seat. The car seemed to glide and I could feel sleep sneaking up on me. The driver’s big pink palm was in front of me with a small package between the fingers.

  ‘You look tired,’ he said. ‘Not far now. Want some gum?’

  ‘Thanks.’ I took a piece of the gum, unwrapped it and put the paper in the pull-out ashtray; it would’ve held the yellow pages. ‘Who do you work for exactly?’

  ‘Hang…on!’ The big car swayed to the right like a tacking yacht and then came back, slewing and rocking across the buttons in the road that marked the lanes. I heard January yell and Gary swear and then I was pressed back against the seat as the driver accelerated.

  ‘Behind and right!’ He yelled. ‘You see ‘em?’

  I swivelled to look out the back window which was clear and clouded as the wiper slashed across it. I saw a big grey car gaining fast and rocking as gusts of wind hit it. I tugged the. 38 free for no good reason I could think of, maybe to encourage him to drive faster.

  ‘Grey car, foreign-looking?’

  ‘That’s him. He tried to push me through the wall back there. He’ll be coming again?’

  ‘Where’s our other car?’

  ‘Way back. I had to hit the juice to make him miss. They’re back in the bunch. Hold it! He’s coming! Your side!’

  The grey car loomed up alongside and crowded us. The driver yielded one lane; we clicked over the buttons and then he held firm. We must have been travelling at over 90 miles an hour but the car could have been cruising. I was dimly aware of posts and overhead lights flashing past as we rocketed along side by side towards a few cars moving sedately ahead of us.

  ‘What can you do?’ My teeth were clenched and the words came out thin and tight.

  ‘Hold the road.’

  The grey car hung back while we flashed past a couple of cars steering a frantic wavering line. I wound down the window and felt the wind and water whip at me as the grey car drew up again.

  ‘You seem to know what you’re doing,’ I said. ‘You think I should take a shot at him?’

  He held the wheel lightly and only the fact that he was chewing the gum at a slower rate betrayed his reaction. ‘Think I see what they’re trying to do. No, don’t shoot. But it wouldn’t hurt to show them the piece.’

  I half-turned, cocked an arm and levelled the gun at the windscreen a few feet away using the arm as a rest. The grey car was inches away, crowding us right. Ahead I saw a ramp running off to the right down from the elevated road into a grey, misty sea of streets and buildings.

  ‘He’s going to hit us!’ I yelled.

  The driver sucked on his top lip. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I think he’s through.’ A wave of power seemed to run through the car and it surged forward until we were a few yards ahead by the time we reached the ramp. January was quiet; Gary was muttering what might have been a prayer.

  ‘They’re dropping back.’ I pulled my wet gun and damp arm inside and wound up the window. ‘Will they have a go at the other car?’

  ‘Have a go,’ the driver said. ‘That’s nice. No, I don’t think they’ll have a go at it. I’m not even sure they were having a go at us.’

  ‘Would you mind telling me what the hell that was all about?’ January’s voice was firm but a tone or two higher than normal.

  I touched the driver on the shoulder. ‘This man saved our lives, that’s what happened.’

  ‘Thank you,’ January said.

  ‘Nothing, Mr January.’

  ‘I was asking you who you worked for,’ I said. ‘I suppose it isn’t the ACME limousine company?’

  He laughed. ‘No, sir. Mr Hardy, is that right?’

  ‘Cliff,’ I said.

  ‘Billy Spinoza. I liked what you didn’t do with the gun, Cliff. I guess they were pretty good but if they weren’t a gunshot at the wrong time could’ve killed us all. Did you get a look at them?’

  I tried to remember. ‘Just a flash. Two men; the driver was young and fair. The other one was heavier, older probably.’

  ‘You know this trick? Close your eyes and try to sort of print their picture inside your head. Might want you to look at some photographs later.’

  I’d done it before, more or less automatically, but I did it deliberately now. ‘Long fair hair,’ I said.

  Spinoza nodded. ‘Good.’

  ‘What were they trying to do?’ Gary asked.

  ‘They were trying to run us down the west ramp back there.’ Spinoza was chewing rhythmically again. ‘If they’d succeeded there’s no telling what might have happened. It’s rough down there.’

  I coughed. ‘You still haven’t told me…’

  Spinoza laughed. ‘Cliff, you could say I work for the Australian Government.’

  ****

  14

  Billy Spinoza slowed the limousine until the other car caught up and we went on our stately way into the city. He explained that he was a ‘sort of government man’ on loan to the branch of the Australian security service that protected the diplomats.

  ‘You’ve got a couple of good men,’ he said, ‘but they’re stretched thin and they get called away to other places. Job like this needs local knowledge or something like it.’

  ‘A job like what?’

  ‘Like you, Mr January. I don’t know how long it is since you’ve been here but things are changing every day. The crazies are coming out of the woods. Should see it when the President travels, it’s like a red alert.’

  ‘I see,’ January said quietly. ‘Well, that was quite a reception.’

  ‘I hear you had bombing,’ Spinoza said.

  ‘You think these things could be related?’ January sounded interested rather than alarmed. It was almost as if he was working out how to profit from the idea.

  ‘We’ll look at it. Cliff here and me. We’ve got most kinds of trouble here but not many bombers. I don’t really know why. You’d think this would be a good breeding ground.’

  We were passing through a poor section of the city. The pavements were dirty and the rubbish overflowed into the gutters, or maybe it was flowing the other way. There were shops on the corners with boards and broken signs. I could see the scars of break and entry on doors to the shops and other buildings. Water cascaded from cracked, sagging guttering and the walls were covered with ripped, defaced posters advertising everything from soap to string quartet recitals. The
people hurrying along the wet streets were mostly black. Groups of youths huddled in the doorways as if body heat was their only protection from the cold.

  ‘Christ,’ Gray said, ‘how far away’s the White House?’

  Spinoza laughed. ‘Oh, just a few blocks.’

  I looked down a side street as we slowed for a light. Rusting, burnt-out cars were parked bumper to bumper along both sides of the road for as far as I could see. In a couple of places they spilled over onto the pavement and there was even one wreck sitting high up on top of another. Spinoza saw me looking.

  ‘That’s the street where cars go to die. There’s some streets where you don’t walk around after dark but that’s a street where you don’t walk, ever!’

  I heard Gary expel a long, harsh breath. January was silent. If he was anything at all like me he was experiencing the old-soldier feeling of moving into a battle zone. He’d also be needing a drink.

  ‘Would everyone in Washington know about those roadworks?’ I was wondering what was the right thing to do with my gum.

  ‘Could find out if anyone was specially interested in the routes and such. You’re thinking, I see.’ Spinoza turned and slowed down at an intersection. ‘We’ll be out of this stuff in a minute. Into the parks and bridges. Of course, folks sleep in the parks and under the bridges, but you can’t see ‘em from the road.’

  ‘You don’t sound like a government man,’ I said.

  He drove for a while, then he wound down his window and dropped his gum out. I did the same.

  He grinned. ‘Speaking my mind? That’s just my cover. Your journey’s end, folks. The Lincoln Hotel.’

  ****

  I don’t spend a lot of time hanging around fancy hotels, but I’ve taken the odd gambler back to the Hilton in Sydney so I know what they look like. I’ve even had a drink in the bar of the Wentworth. The lobby of the Lincoln reminded me of Government House-all deep, dusty carpet, heavy furniture and too many surfaces to keep polished.