by Peter Corris
‘Do you know this woman, Minister?’
My first reaction was to ram him up against a wall again, but it would have been the wrong move. January had the situation sized up now and, like a good pro in the ring, he was dictating the pace. He smiled, took a sip of his drink and drew his brows together in puzzlement. ‘No, I don’t believe so. Who is she?’
‘You had a drink with her the other night.’
January was moving now, not hastily but enough to put Weiss off balance. He grinned. ‘I wish I had a vote for everyone I’ve had a drink with, Sammy. See you again. Trudi, could you come and have a word over here? Excuse us.’ And he was off, sliding smoothly across the room, holding Trudi by the arm, and looking like an important man, not without the common touch, but with things on his mind.
‘Shit!’ Weiss said.
‘That’s about the first thing you’ve said in a while that I’ve understood, Sammy. Exactly what are you referring to?’
Weiss put the picture away. ‘There’s a story here. I can smell it. Hardy, you have to…’
I backed off and shook my can. Empty. ‘Sammy, we’re even. You got me across a table with Tobin and I got you in a room with January. Evens. In fact, you win because that guts of a brother-in-law of yours ate and drank up $60 worth.’
‘You’re on expenses,’ Weiss said sourly.
‘That’s right, I forgot. As I said then, we’re even.’
That was it for Weiss. I’ve seen them-a dried-out drinker only has so much social and nervous energy in him. If he expends it in a rush the way Weiss had, he either goes off the wagon or he retires to lick his wounds and do something else. I got another can of beer and waited until Trudi and January had finished their business. The hard-core had settled in: Gary seemed to have plenty of staying power and a few around him, journalists, a sound man who had got left behind somehow, and assorted party-sniffers who had drifted in, had that ‘let’s-kick-on’ look to them.
I saw the signal pass between Gary and Trudi and suddenly everything was movement. Gary grabbed a couple of bottles and shepherded his new-found mates towards the stairs. Trudi and January followed and I followed them. A few lights were turned off and an urgency to leave took hold and drove everyone to the street.
A car was waiting for January. Gary and the good-time group appeared not to notice as the Minister slipped inside and was driven away at speed, as the tabloids would say. I was left standing on the footpath with Trudi Bell beside me.
‘I hope you don’t have to go back upstairs and wash the glasses,’ I said.
‘Nope. I set the alarms and locked the door behind me. You’re the security expert, didn’t you see?’
‘Nope.’
‘Some expert.’
The street was still busy but the pace had changed. People strolled rather than rushed and the buzz from the pub was steady and keyed-in for the evening. Some of the shops were still open-the coffee bars, the health food store and an old place that still carried the pre-war sign ‘Mixed Business’-but there were dark windows and doorways and gaps along the kerbs where the shoppers’ and shopowners’ cars had been. ‘Well,’ Trudi said. ‘How’re you feeling?’ I took hold of her upper arm. It was firm with a long muscle that flexed and relaxed under my touch. ‘Like company,’ I said.
****
9
Trudi Bell didn’t have a car. I drove to Lilyfield and she told me to stop opposite a row of houses set high up on the west side of the street. From that elevation the view would be over the old concrete viaduct that emerges at different places through the suburb, across the canal and some scruffy parkland, clear across factories and houses to the city.
‘I can walk to the office from here,’ she said. ‘Good for the calf muscles.’
I stood on the footpath and opened the tricky passenger door of the Falcon. ‘I get the feeling that muscles are important to you,’ I said.
‘You’ll see. We’ve got the steps to climb first.’
My calves were aching when we got up to her place which turned out to be a loft behind a big sprawling house. The loft would once have had narrow slit windows but now it had big expanses of glass to let the view in. We climbed still more steps, narrow wooden flights up to a door at the end of the building.
‘What do you think?’
I clung on to the handrail. ‘Air’s thin up here.’
She laughed, dug out her key and we went in. She flicked a switch inside the door. The loft was spacious and spare. There was a pot belly stove up one end near a small refrigerator and microwave oven on a bench. A lot of cushions lay about and there was a table tennis table at the other end. The big windows looked out to the city. The viaduct was a dark, exotic shape back-lit by the suburban lights.
Trudi threw her keys into an earthenware pot and stomped around turning on more lights.
‘Like it?’
‘It’s great.’ Along one wall there was the sort of divan that folds down to make a double bed; a couple of light wooden room dividers lay on top of the divan. She saw me looking.
‘That’s my bedroom. I can move it to wherever I like. I’m going to make a toasted sandwich. Want one?’
‘Thanks. Where’s Gunther?’
‘He’s away being minded. I lined it up with a friend when I knew I was going to the US. Otherwise he’d be scratching the door down by now. D’you like dogs, Cliff?’
‘I’m not sure. Way back, when I did divorce work, they could be a bit of a nuisance when I was sneaking around a house. I haven’t met too many angry ones lately.’ I wandered around looking at the posters on the walls-movie themes and characters, some nice ones from a San Francisco exhibition of relics from Egyptian tombs-and the books. Her clothes hung on a metal rack near the divan. The pop as she pulled the cork from a bottle of wine made me start.
‘You’re edgy,’ she said. She poured some wine and beckoned me across to the bench.
‘Yes.’ I drank some of the dry white and suddenly felt hungry. Trudi diluted hers with soda water and I wondered if she’d picked that up from January.
‘Food won’t be long. Why’re you edgy?’
‘I don’t know. Who d’you play table tennis with?’
‘Anyone who’s good enough. Do you play?’
‘I can. Is that what you meant about muscles?’
‘No, I’ve got some weights and an exercise bike. Keep ‘em in a cupboard so’s not to scare off the men. What do you do for exercise, Cliff?’
‘Bit of tennis, some swimming, that’s about all.’
‘What about Helen?’
I took a long drink. ‘Who told you about Helen?’
‘Peter. He was sort of in love with her before he met Karen. Lucky for you; he hasn’t missed many he’s aimed at.’
‘So I gather. Helen plays tennis and swims. She does other things in the country-chops wood for all I know.’
‘Sounds like you’re getting sick of the arrangement.’
‘Peter’s really filled you in, hasn’t he?’
She touched my arm. ‘Don’t get pissed off. We’re just talking. It sounds good to me. Better’n anything I ever had.’
‘You’re doing all right. Good job, good place, you could take your pick of the men…’
‘I do.’ She took a gulp of her drink. ‘Let’s eat. Stools are under there. Just yank ‘em out and we’ll sit here.’
She made cheese and bacon sandwiches and we wolfed down a couple each with the wine. We sat very close together at the bench and I could smell her and feel the warmth from her body. She shivered and I took off my jacket and hung it around her shoulders. She was good to touch, firm and straight-backed with a softness over the bones.
She lifted her glass. ‘Washington,’ she said.
‘Washington.’ We drank. ‘Has there been any more nutty mail?’
‘Ah, work,’ she said. ‘Safe ground. No, nothing since the bomb. What d’you make of that?’
‘I don’t know.’ I wasn’t really concentrating on the words. The
re was a battle going on inside me. The four l’s-love, loyalty, lust and loneliness -were having a hell of a good time slugging it out and I was feeling miserable. Trudi fell silent and seemed to brood. Then she jumped off her stool and bounced up and down on the board floor.
‘Tell you what, I know a place where they have great coffee and they put French brandy in it. Costs a mint. I’ll play you some table tennis. Loser buys the coffee. Okay?’
I laughed. She kept bouncing and the chopped-off hair swung around her head. I wondered how long she could bounce like that-longer than me for sure. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘You’re on. Best of three?’
She nodded. ‘Toss for ends.’
She won the toss, turned on the big hooded light over the table and offered me a selection of bats. I chose a heavy one. She held up two balls, one white, one red.
‘White. I’m old-fashioned.’
‘I can see that.’
She turned off the other lights apart from a lamp down by the bench. We hit up. That is, she hit up. She put the first few past me on either side using wicked spin and plenty of power.
‘You could at least take the jacket off.’
‘Sorry.’ She slung the jacket aside. ‘Home ground advantage. Is the lighting okay?’
It wasn’t quite. Since my eye injury I’d had a little trouble with shadows and adapting from light to dark quickly. But I had no real excuses other than rustiness. ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Can we rally a bit on both sides while I get my eye in?’
‘Sure.’
We rallied steadily, forehand and backhand, and I began to get the rhythm back. I’d played the game like a madman at the Maroubra YMCA as a kid and later in long, boring lay-off times in Malaya. I’d had a few games since, away on holiday with Cyn and at other places with other people, but I’d played much more court tennis and the two styles don’t mix well. I took too much swing and advertised my moves from right to left too clearly. Still, after the rallying and a few practice serves, I felt I was ready.
‘Three over for serve.’ She was concentrating, bent over, serious. I lost the serve in four shots.
The first game was over pretty quickly. I lost 21-9. She had a tricky, whippy style which depended a lot on spin and an ability to drop the ball short over the net. I won a few points by pushing her back and forcing her to hit long. She aced me at least eight times, but it wasn’t all bad: I aced her once. I won most of my points towards the end when I’d figured out some of the elements of her game. She liked to take the ball late and very low, below the level of the table if possible. This disguised the spin and direction; the ball came back breaking to either side and skipping down the middle or skimming the sidelines. But I watched and picked up something from the way she dropped her shoulder when she made the shots.
I held her in the second game. The ways of neutralising spin came back to me and I could control her serve better. I read the tricky low shots and did better than before when she had to play long. But she was fitter than me and I had to end the points quickly if I could-most of the really long rallies she won. I hit my straps at 16-19 down. I won all five points and the game.
We changed ends. I was sweating freely but she seemed cool and untroubled.
‘You’re all right,’ she said.
‘I thought I was good and you were terrific’
‘I’m just getting warmed up.’
And she was. She won her serve to love and I was struggling to get three points on mine. I pegged her back a bit over the next few serves but she’d been reading my style while I’d been reading hers. She fought to keep the points long and with a lot of side to side movement. She bounced; I lumbered. She spun and I smashed.
‘That coffee’ll be good,’ she said at 16-10 up.
‘You can’t leave your purse at home yet.’
She laughed and seemed to lose concentration a little. The serve changed at 17-13.
She flicked the ball to me. ‘You’re gone,’ she said.
I won four points and got set to serve at 17 all.
‘I get the feeling that whoever wins this point’ll win the match,’ she said. She was gasping just a little.
‘You’re stalling for breath,’ I said.
She crouched, bounced and wove from side to side to prove me wrong.
I served. The window exploded and the lights went out. Glass showered onto the top of the table. I rushed forward around the table, slithered on broken glass and fought for balance.
‘Where are you?’ I yelled.
‘Down! I’m down!’
I hit the floor myself, half falling, half diving and trying to keep my hands and face out of the glass. I was almost under the table and I heard frantic scrabbling at the other end.
‘Trudi! Are you hurt?’
‘No! What the hell was that?’
I rolled over and looked out the shattered window. There’s nothing wrong with my distance vision at night. A hundred yards away, out among the dark patches and bright pools of light, I glimpsed a quick, flurried movement on the top of the viaduct. A dark shape moved down and out of sight, then a car engine started and I caught a quick glimpse of red light.
****
10
Mrs Bell!’ The shout came from the house below and in front of the loft.
Trudi scrambled up from the floor and rushed to the window. ‘It’s all right. Mr Jamieson. An accident.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I broke a window. Nobody hurt.’
We turned on some more lights and surveyed the damage.
‘Shit,’ Trudi said. ‘Look at my bedroom.’
I looked sharply at her but she meant the stack of room dividers. A bullet had hit them, passing through and gouging the wall behind. Another had hit the light. Trudi went to the end of the room and poured us both some wine. She shoved things around and then gave a low moan. ‘I had some cigarettes here, I’ll swear.’
I went over and took the glass. ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
‘I stopped.’
‘You’ll be okay without,’ I said. ‘Have some wine.’
‘Yeah.’ We both drank and she grinned at me. ‘I woulda won.’
‘I think you’re right. You’d have been cooler than me at 20-20.’
She sniffed and drank. ‘It’s nothing after the bomb. God, that poor little kid.’
We drew close and stood with our arms around each other, still holding our glasses. We stood like that for a long time and then I took her back to Glebe watching the rear vision mirror all the way.
I circled the block and checked every parked car before I stopped. Inside, I made her some tea and put her to bed in the room Hilde used to occupy. I went out the back way and checked the area thoroughly again. When I got back she was asleep.
****
We didn’t tell January or anyone else about the shots. Glazing is one of the few practical jobs I can do. I replaced the window panes; Trudi bought a new light and partitions. She stayed five nights at my place and moved back to her loft a few nights before we were due to fly to Washington. Helen had rung one night when I was out and left a message on the machine that she’d call again in 12 hours. I didn’t get the message and Trudi answered when she rang. Helen hung up. I tried to call her at the radio station where she worked part-time and was told she was on leave. I didn’t want to ring her at home. I never had.
I was bad-tempered after the phone disaster which was probably why Trudi moved back. Things were cool between us. I sat with the phone wondering whether I should call the Broadway Agricultural Company. Instead, I called Frank Parker. I felt the need for some non-political company and conversation and I could rely on Frank and Hilde to give it to me. Frank often needed the same sort of thing and Hilde, who was researching some jawbone speciality too ghastly to mention, was always good for some academic dental stories.
Inspector Parker was interstate on business. I put the phone down and it rang immediately. I considered flicking the recording machine on but I wasn�
�t that far gone.
‘Hardy.’
‘Cliff, Trudi.’
There was need in her voice. I love to be needed, I thought, almost as much as I need to be loved. Speak up, can’t hear you.’
‘I can’t yell, I’m in the office. There’s been another letter. Peter’s under big pressure all around. I don’t want to worry him with it.’
‘Don’t. Stay there. I’ll come in.’
The office was humming; there was energy in everybody’s movements and they were practically jostling each other to get at the phones and filing cabinets. Trudi had a phone to her ear when I walked in. She said something quick into it and slammed it down. I looked enquiringly at her and she grimaced.
‘My ex,’ she said. ‘Let’s go somewhere.’ She grabbed a manilla folder from her desk, mouthed ‘Out’ to Gary who nodded, and we headed for the door. On the street I had to scuttle to keep pace with her.
‘Why so busy?’
‘Getting stuff ready for Peter.’
‘I mean you, now?’
‘Oh, that man, he drives me crazy.’
‘Peter or your ex?’
‘All men.’
I couldn’t think of anything very useful to say to that. We went to the Bar Napoli and I ordered the coffee. Trudi passed the folder across to me. Inside was a cheap envelope with ‘PETER January’ printed on it in scratchy, half dry ballpoint. There was a square of paper, like butcher’s wrapping paper but smaller. Using the same pen and mixing up the cases someone had written: ‘I wiLL KiLL ALL THe WOMen’. There were photocopies of both. Trudi sipped her coffee and looked agitated.
‘He’ll need to be a better shot,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Must’ve driven him crazy up there on the viaduct, getting all lined up, night scope and all, and you bobbing and weaving.’
‘Christ, do you actually think this is funny?’
I drank some of the good, strong coffee. ‘No, but I don’t see what harm a joke can do, as long as it doesn’t stop us being careful.’